.^U    *&#^ ' ' 


THE  KENTUCKIANS 


A  KNIGHT  OF  THE 
CUMBERLAND 


"  Mart's  a-gittin  ready  fer  a  tourneyment." 


THE  KENTUCKIANS 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE 
CUMBERLAND 


BY 
JOHN  FOX,  JR. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

W.  T.  SMEDLEY  AND  F.  C.  YOHN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

THE  KENTUCKIANS 

Obpyright.  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND 

Copyright,  1906,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SOUS 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

THE  KENTUCKIANS 1 

A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND       .       .  161 

I.    THE  BLIGHT  IN  THE  HILLS    ...  163 

II.    ON  THE  WILD  DOG'S  TRAIL        .       .  173 

III.  THE  AURICULAR  TALENT  OF  THE  HON. 

SAMUEL  BUDD 184 

IV.  CLOSE  QUARTERS 195 

V.    BACK  TO  THE  HILLS      ....  213 

VI.    THE  GREAT  DAY 220 

VII.    AT  LAST— THE  TOURNAMENT     .       .  232 

VIII.    THE  KNIGHT  PASSES         ....  258 


226720 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Mart's  a  gittin'  ready  fer  a  tourneyment "    Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Marshall  went  at  once  to  the  piano 60 

"He's  in  jail" 86 

He  tossed  his  weapon  aside 128 

"If  I'd  a'  known  hit  was  you  I'd  a  stayed  in  jail"  172 

The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  reined  in  before 

the  Blight 246 

But  every  knight  and  every  mounted  policemen  took 

out  after  the  outlaw 256 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 


TO 

MY  FATHER 

AND   MY   FATHERS 

KENTUCKIANS 


I 


people  of  the  little  Kentucky  capital 
JL  do  not  often  honor  the  gray  walls  of  their 
state-house.  The  legislators  play  small  part  in 
the  social  life  of  the  town.  A  member  must  have 
blood,  as  well  as  gifts  unusual,  who  can  draw 
from  the  fine  old  homes  a  people  with  a  full  cen 
tury  of  oratory  and  social  distinction  behind 
them,  and,  further  back,  the  proud  traditions  of 
Virginia.  For  years  young  Marshall  was  the 
first  to  quite  fill  the  measure,  and  he  was  to  speak 
that  afternoon.  The  ladies'  gallery  was  full, 
and  the  Governor's  daughter,  Anne,  sat  midway. 
About  her  was  a  sudden  flutter  and  a  leaning  for 
ward  when  Marshall  strode  a  little  consciously 
down  the  aisle  and  took  his  seat.  When  he  rose 
to  speak,  the  quick  silence  of  the  House  was  a 
tribute  to  thrill  him. 

It  was  oratory  that  one  hears  rarely  now,  even 
in  the  South.  There  was  an  old-fashioned  pitch 
to  the  vibrant  voice,  the  fire  of  strong  feeling  in 
the  fearless  eye,  an  old-fashioned  grace  and  dig 
nity  of  manner,  and  a  dash  that  his  high  color 
showed  to  be  not  wholly  natural.  The  speech 

3 


TBE  i 


emotional,  the  sentences  full, 
swinging,  poetic,  rich  with  imagery  and  classical 
allusion.  And  always  —  in  voice,  eye,  bearing, 
and  gesture  —  was  there  gallant  consciousness  of 
the  gallery  behind.  More  than  once  his  eyes 
swept  the  curve  of  it  ;  and  when  he  came  to  pay 
his  unfailing  tribute  to  the  women  of  his  land, 
he  turned  quite  around,  until  his  back  was  upon 
the  Speaker  and  his  uplifted  face  straight  tow 
ard  the  Governor's  daughter,  who  moved  her 
idle  fan  and  colored  as  many  an  eye  was  turned 
from  him  to  her. 

The  Speaker's  gavel  lay  untouched  before  him 
when  the  last  period  rang  through  the  chamber. 
It  would  have  been  useless  against  the  outbreak 
of  applause  that  followed.  Marshall  had  flamed 
anew  from  an  already  brilliant  past.  Anne  was 
leaning  back  with  luminous  eyes  and  a  proud 
heart.  The  gallant  old  Governor  himself  was 
hurrying  from  under  the  gallery  to  bend  over 
his  protege  and  grasp  his  hand.  The  pit  of  the 
house  buzzed  like  a  hive  of  bees.  Down  there 
a  Greek  passion  for  oratory  was  still  alive;  in 
the  older  men  the  young  fellow  stirred  memories 
that  were  sacred;  and  the  hum  rose  so  high  that 
the  sharp  rap  of  the  gavel  went  through  it  twice 
unnoticed,  then  twice  again,  more  sharply  still. 
The  Speaker's  face  was  turned  to  one  dark  cor 
ner  of  the  room  where,  under  the  big  clock,  stood 

4 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

the  rough  figure  of  a  mountaineer,  with  hands 
behind  him  and  swaying  awkwardly  from  side 
to  side,  as  though  his  tongue  were  refusing  him 
utterance.  Once  he  cleared  his  throat  huskily, 
and  a  smile  started  on  many  a  face,  and  quickly 
stopped,  for  it  was  plain  that  the  man's  trouble 
was  not  embarrassment,  but  some  storm  of  feel 
ing  that  threatened  to  engulf  his  brain  and  surge 
out  in  a  torrent  of  invective.  The  mountaineer 
himself  seemed  fearful  of  some  such  thing;  for, 
with  turbulent  calmness,  he  began  slowly,  and 
went  on  with  great  care.  No  reason  was  ap 
parent,  but  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  House 
turned  toward  him  with  the  silence  of  premoni 
tion.  One  by  one  wrinkles  came  into  the  Speak 
er's  strong,  placid  face.  Marshall,  quick  to  feel 
merit  and  generous  to  grant  it,  had  straightened 
in  his  chair.  The  old  Governor,  going  out,  was 
halted  by  the  voice  at  the  door.  And  one,  who 
himself  loved  the  Governor's  daughter,  remem 
bered  long  afterward  that  she  leaned  suddenly 
toward  the  man,  with  her  eyes  wide  and  her 
face  quite  tense  with  absorption.  The  secret  was 
in  more  than  his  simple  bigness,  more  than  his 
massive  head  and  heavy  hair,  in  more  even  than 
the  extraordinary  voice  that  came  from  him.  It 
was  an  electric  recognition  of  force — the  force 
with  which  Nature  does  her  heavy  work  under 
the  earth  and  in  the  clouds;  and  here  and  there 

5 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

an  old  member  knew  that  a  prophet  was  among 
them. 

It  was  the  old  fight — patrician  against  plebe 
ian,  crude  force  against  culture — but  the  House 
knew  that  young  Randolph  Marshall,  who  al 
ready  challenged  the  brilliant  traditions  of  a 
great  forefather,  who  was  a  promise  to  redeem 
a  degenerate  present  and  bring  back  a  great  past, 
had  found  an  easy  peer  in  the  awkward  bulk  just 
risen  before  them,  unknown. 

There  was  little  applause  when  the  mountain 
eer  was  done.  The  surprise  was  too  great,  the 
people  were  too  much  moved.  Adjournment 
came  at  once,  and  everybody  asked  who  the  man 
was,  and  nobody  could  tell.  One  member,  who 
still  stood  gripping  his  own  wrist  hard,  recalled 
on  a  sudden  the  recent  death  of  a  mountain  rep 
resentative  ;  and,  on  a  sudden,  the  old  Governor 
at  the  door  remembered  that  he  had  signed  cre 
dentials  for  somebody  to  take  a  dead  member's 
place.  This  was  the  man.  Outside,  Anne  Bruce 
came  slowly  down  the  oval  stone  stairway,  and 
at  the  bottom  Marshall  was  waiting  for  her.  She 
smiled  a  little  absently  when  he  raised  his  hat, 
and  the  two  stepped  from  the  Greek  portico  into 
the  sunlight  and,  passing  slowly  under  the  elms 
and  out  the  sagging  iron  gate,  turned  toward 
the  old  Mansion.  On  the  curb-stone,  just  out 
side,  stood  one  of  the  figures  familiar  to  the 

6 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

streets  of  the  capital,  a  man  in  stripes  —  a 
"  trusty  "  on  parole — whose  square,  sullen  jaw 
caught  Anne's  attention  sharply,  as  did  the  sign 
of  force  in  a  face  always.  A  moment  later,  the 
big  mountaineer  stopped  there  and  talked  kindly 
with  the  convict  awhile.  Then,  still  in  a  tremor, 
he  moved  on  alone,  across  the  town  and  through 
the  old  wooden  bridge  over  the  river,  then  out 
to  Devil's  Hollow  and  the  hills. 


II 

THE  sun  must  climb  mountains  first—the 
Cumberland  range,  that  grim  and  once 
effectual  protest  against  the  march  of  the  race 
westward.  Over  this  frowning  wall,  the  first 
light  flashes  down  through  primitive  woods  and 
into  fastnesses  that  hold  the  sources  of  great  riv 
ers  and  riches  unimagined,  under  and  on  the 
earth;  beyond,  it  slants  the  crests  of  lesser  hills 
and  bushy  knolls  that  sink  by-and-by  to  the 
gentle  undulations  of  blue-grass  pasture  and 
woodland;  south  and  west  then,  catching  the 
spire  of  convent  and  monastery,  over  fields 
of  pennyroyal,  and  finally  through  the  Pur 
chase  —  last  clutch  of  the  Spaniard  —  to  light 
up  the  yellow  river  that  holds  a  strange  mix 
ture  of  soils  and  people  in  the  hollow  of  its 
arm. 

Something  more  than  a  century  ago  the  range 
gave  way  a  little,  as  earth  and  water  must  vhen 
the  Anglo-Saxon  starts,  but  only  to  say,  "  You 
may  pass  over  and  on,  but  what  drops  behind  is 
mine;  and  I  hold  my  own."  To-day  its  woods 
are  primeval,  its  riche?  are  unrifled,  and  its  peo- 

8 


THE    KENTUCKIASTS 

pie  are  the  people  of  another  age — for  the  range 
has  held  its  own. 

These  men  of  the  mountains  and  the  people 
of  the  blue-grass  are  the  extremes  of  civilization 
in  the  State.  Through  the  brush  country  they 
can  almost  touch  hands,  and  yet  they  know  as 
little  and  have  as  little  care  of  one  another  as 
though  a  sea  were  between  them.  A  few  years 
ago  there  was  but  one  point  where  they  ever 
came  in  contact,  one  point  where  their  interests 
could  clash.  That  was  the  capital,  the  lazy  little 
capital,  on  both  sides  of  the  river  between  the  big, 
sleepy  hills,  with  its  old,  gray  wooden  bridge,  its 
sturdy  old  homes,  its  State  buildings  of  gray 
stone  and  classic  porticos,  and  its  dead  asleep,  up 
in  the  last  sunlight,  around  the  first  great  Ken- 
tuckian — the  hunter  Boone.  There  the  river 
links  highland  with  lowland  like  an  all  but  use 
less  artery,  barren  hill-side  with  rich  pasture- 
land,  blue-grass  with  rhododendron,  deteriora 
tion  with  slow  progress,  darkness  with  light  that 
sometimes  is  a  little  dim,  the  present  century 
with  the  last.  The  big  hills  about  the  town  are 
little  mountains  that  have  followed  the  river 
down  from  the  great  highlands,  and  have  brought 
with  ^them  mute  messengers — mountain  trees, 
mountain  birds,  and  mountain  flowers — to  ask 
that  the  dark  region  within  be  not  wholly  forgot, 
and  to  show  that  the  wish  of  Nature  at  least  is 


THE    KENTIJCKIANS 

for  brotherhood.  Down  this  river  come  wild 
raftsmen,  who  stalk  along  the  middle  of  the 
street,  single  file  and  curiously  subdued;  who 
climb  through  the  car  windows,  and  are  swept 
through  the  blue-grass,  to  trudge  the  old  Wilder 
ness  Road  back  home.  Here  are  two  points  of 
close  contact  for  the  mountaineer  and  the  low- 
lander — the  legislature  and  the  penitentiary. 
Thirty  miles  away  is  an  old  university — the  first 
college  built  west  of  the  Alleghanies — where  a 
mountaineer  drifted  in  occasionally  to  learn  to 
teach  or  to  preach.  Nowhere  else  and  in  no 
way  else  had  the  extremes  ever  touched,  until 
now,  for  the  first  time  in  history,  they  were  in 
conflict. 

A  feud — one  of  those  relics  of  mediaeval  days 
that  had  been  held  like  a  fossil  in  the  hills — had 
broken  out  afresh.  It  was  called  the  Keaton- 
Stallard  "  war  "  in  the  mountains,  and  it  had  been 
giving  trouble  a  long  while.  Recently  the  coun 
ty  judge  had  been  driven  from  the  court-house, 
and  the  Attorney-General  of  the  State  had  gone 
with  soldiers  to  hold  court  at  the  county-seat. 
The  only  verdict  rendered  during  the  term  was 
against  the  General  himself  for  carrying  a 
weapon  concealed;  and  a  heavy  fine  was  imposed 
for  the  same  which  the  Governor  had  to  remit. 
Meanwhile  the  feudsmen  were  out  in  the  brush, 
waiting.  When  the  soldiers  went  back  to  the 

10 


THE    KENTTTCKIANS 

blue-grass,  they  came  out  from  their  hiding- 
places  and  began  over  again.  Now  it  was  worse 
than  ever.  The  Keatons  had  got  the  Stallards 
besieged  not  long  since,  and  the  Keaton  leader 
tried  to  get  a  cannon.  In  good  faith,  and  with 
a  humor  that  was  mighty  because  unconscious, 
he  had  tried  to  purchase  one  from  the  State  au 
thorities — from  the  Governor  himself.  Judge, 
jailer,  sheriff,  and  constable  were  involved  now, 
and  the  county  was  nearing  anarchy. 

The  reputation  of  the  State  was  at  issue,  and 
civilization  in  the  blue-grass  was  rebuking  bar 
barism  in  the  mountains.  Abolish  the  county, 
was  the  cry  at  the  capital,  and  that  afternoon 
Marshall  had  voiced  it.  He  had  been  taken  off 
guard.  He  had  gone  down  the  current  of  tradi 
tion,  catching  up  straws  that  are  anybody's  for 
the  catching — stock  allusions  to  wolf-scalps  and 
pauperism;  scathing  mountain  lawlessness  as  a 
red  blot  on  the  'scutcheon  of  the  State,  which, 
to  quote  the  spirit  of  his  talk,  had  stained  the 
highland  border  of  the  commonwealth  with 
blood,  and  abroad  was  engulfing  tlie  reputation 
of  the  lowland  blue-grass;  contrasting,  finally, 
the  garden-spot  of  the  earth,  his  own  land  of 
milk  and  honey,  with  the  black  ribs  of  rock  and 
forest  that  still  harbor  the  evil  spirit  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  had  never  been  better  done, 
for  under  the  humor  and  easy  good-nature  of  the 
ii 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

speech  were  a  quivering  pride  of  State  and  a  bit 
ter  arraignment  of  the  people  who  were  bringing 
.  it  into  disrepute.  The  mountaineer  was  a  strag 
gler,  a  deserter  from  the  ranks.  He  was  vicious, 
untrustworthy,  ignorant,  lawless,  and  content 
with  his  degradation.  He  was  idle,  shiftless, 
hopeless;  a  burden  to  the  State,  a  drawback  to 
civilization.  That  was  the  plain  truth  under 
Marshall's  courteous  words,  and,  well  told  as  it 
was,  it  would  have  been  better  told  had  he  known 
the  presence  of  the  rough  champion  who,  answer 
ing  just  that  truth,  tore  apart  his  loose  net-work 
with  the  ease  of  summer  lightning  lifting  the 
horizon  at  dusk.  His  was  a  voice  from  the  wil 
derness  ;  it  bespoke  a  new  and  throbbing  power 
in  the  destiny  of  the  State;  it  proclaimed  a  com 
mercial  epoch.  He  admitted  much,  he  denied 
somewhat,  he  made  little  defence,  and  he  apolo 
gized  not  at  all.  His  appeal  was  for  fairness — 
that  was  all;  and  it  was  fierce,  passionate,  and 
tender.  He  was  a  mountaineer.  He  lived  in 
the  county  under  discussion,  in  the  town  where 
the  feud  was  going  on.  More,  an  uncle  of  his 
had  once  been  a  leader  of  the  Stallard  faction. 
His  people  were  idle,  shiftless,  ignorant,  lawless. 
No  wonder.  They  had  started  as  backwoods 
men  a  century  ago;  they  had  lived  apart  from 
the  world  and  without  books,  schools,  or 
churches  since  the  Revolution;  they  had  had  a 

12 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

century  of  such  a  life  in  which  to  deteriorate. 
Their  law  was  lax.  They  lived  apart  from  one 
another  as  well,  and,  of  necessity,  public  senti 
ment  was  weak  and  unity  of  action  difficult — 
except  for  mischief.  It  was  easy  for  ten  bad 
men  to  give  character  to  a  community — to  em 
broil  ninety  good  ones.  And  that  was  what  had 
been  done.  The  good  ninety  were  there  for 
every  ten  that  were  bad.  Nobody  deplored  the 
feud  more  than  he,  but  he  saw  there  were  times 
when  people  must  take  the  law  into  their  own 
hands.  The  mountain  people  must  in  the  end 
govern  themselves,  and  they  could  not  begin  too 
soon.  To  disrupt  the  county  would  be  to  take 
away  the  only  remedy  possible  in  the  end.  Then 
the  heavy  brows  lifted,  and  a  surprising  chal 
lenge  came.  By  what  right  and  from  what  high 
place  did  the  people  of  the  blue-grass  rebuke 
the  people  of  the  mountains?  Were  they  less 
quick  to  fight?  In  one  section,  the  fighting  was 
by  individuals ;  in  the  other,  families  and  friends 
for  a  good  reason  took  up  the  quarrel.  Was 
not  that  the  great  difference?  And  for  whom 
was  there  the  less  excuse?  For  the  people  who 
knew,  or  for  the  ignorant;  for  them  who  could 
enforce  the  law,  or  for  them  who,  because  of 
their  environment,  were  almost  helpless?  Who 
knew  how  powerful  that  environment  had  been? 
Who  knew  that  it  did  not  make  the  mighty  dis- 

13 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

tinctions  between  the  mountaineers  and  the  peo 
ple  of  the  blue-grass;  that  the  slipping  of  a  linch 
pin  in  a  wagon  on  the  Wilderness  Road  had  not 
made  the  difference  between  his  own  family  and 
the  proudest  in  the  State;  that  the  gentleman 
himself  was  not  scoring  his  own  kin  ?  Why  not  ? 
And  with  stirring  queries  like  these  he  closed 
like  a  trumpet  over  the  future  of  his  much- 
mocked  hills  when  their  riches  were  unlocked  to 
their  own  people  and  to  the  outer  world.  It 
was  the  man  that  made  the  sensation.  What  he 
said,  at  another  time  and  from  another  source, 
would  have  got  scant  attention  and  no  credence. 
But  two  facts  spoke  for  him  now :  already  a  tide 
of  speculation  was  turning  into  those  little-known 
hills,  and  there  before  the  House  was  at  least 
one  human  product  of  them  who  plainly  could 
force  the  question  to  be  handled  with  serious 
care. 

It  was  the  power  of  the  speech  that  stung 
Marshall.  The  matter  of  it  was  of  little  mo 
ment  to  him.  Once  in  a  while  he  had  chased  a 
red  fox  from  the  blue-grass  to  the  foot-hills. 
As  a  boy,  he  had  gone  with  his  father  on  annual 
trips  to  the  Cumberland  to  fish  and  to  hunt  deer. 
The  Marshalls  even  owned  mountain  lands  some 
where,  which,  with  their  sole  crop  of  taxes,  had 
been  a  jest  in  the  family  for  generations.  That 
was  the  little  he  knew  of  his  own  mountains. 


THE    KEOTUCKIANS 

He  had  cared  even  less;  but,  while  he  listened, 
his  sense  of  fairness  made  him  quickly  sorry  that 
he  had  spoken  with  such  confidence  when  there 
was  room  for  any  doubt;  and  before  the  moun 
taineer  was  done  he  was  silently  and  uneasily 
measuring  strength  with  him,  point  by  point. 

To  Anne,  the  man  and  the  speech  were  a  rev 
elation  :  she  barely  knew  her  State  had  moun 
tains.  She  hardly  spoke  on  her  way  home,  and 
she  seemed  not  to  notice  Marshall's  unusual  si 
lence. 

"  He  has  the  fascination  of  something  new 
and  perhaps  terrible,"  she  said  once.  "  And  it's 
startling,  what  he  said.  I  wonder  if  it  can  be 
true?"  And  again,  a  moment  later,  slowly: 
"  It  is  very  strange;  it  all  seems  to  have  hap 
pened  before." 

Marshall's  answer  was  a  little  grim: 
"  Once  is  enough  for  me,  I  think." 
(  You  and  your  speech,"  she  went  on,  barely 
heeding  his  interruption.      "  It  seemed  as  though 
I  had  already  heard  you  make  just  that  speech 
under  just  those  circumstances.     It's  one  of  those 
queer  experiences  that  seem  to  have  occurred  be 
fore,  down  to  minute  details." 

"  That  was  the  trouble,"  said  Marshall, 
quietly.  "  I  made  that  speech,  practically,  on 
my  graduating-day.  I  hadn't  studied  the  ques 
tion  since." 

15 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Anne's  face  cleared.  "  Oh,  that's  the  explana 
tion  !  A  thing  seems  to  have  happened  before, 
I  suppose,  because  it  has  so  nearly  happened  that 
it  seems  to  be  exactly  the  same  thing." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Marshall,  but  he  was  watch- 
ing  Anne  steadily.  He  was  already  smarting 
with  humiliation,  and  it  hurt  him  that  she  could 
be  so  absorbed  as  to  carelessly  press  the  thorn 
in  his  flesh  still  farther  in,  and  apparently  not 
guess  or  not  care  how  it  rankled. 

"  Once  even  that  man's  face  seemed  familiar," 
she  added.  "  I'd  like  to  know  all  about  him." 
They  had  reached  the  steps  of  the  Mansion,  and 
Marshall  was  taking  off  his  hat. 

"  Make  him  tell  you." 

Anne  looked  up  quickly.     "  I  will." 

"  Good-by." 

Anne  smiled.  She  was  accustomed  to  that 
tone;  she  had  forgiven  it  many  times;  she  had 
been  distrait,  and  she  would  forgive  it  again. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said  gently. 


16 


Ill 

IT  was  Saturday,  and  Marshall  always  spent 
Sunday  at  home.  It  was  the  run  of  an  hour 
to  Lexington  on  the  fast  train,  and  at  sunset  he 
was  in  a  buggy,  behind  a  little  blooded  mare,  and 
on  one  of  the  white  turnpikes  that  make  a  spider's 
web  of  the  blue-grass,  speeding  home.  A  red  arc 
of  the  sun  was  still  visible  just  behind  the  statue 
of  the  great  Commoner,  and  across  the  long,  low 
sky  one  cloud  in  the  east  was  still  rosy  with  light. 
Already  the  dew  was  rising,  and  when  he  swept 
down  over  a  little  bridge  in  a  hollow  the  air  was 
deliciously  cool  and  heavy  with  the  wet  fragrance 
of  mint  and  pennyroyal.  On  either  side  the  ves 
pers  of  a  song-sparrow  would  radiate  now  and 
then  from  the  top  of  a  low  weed,  and  a  meadow- 
lark  would  rise  and  wheel,  singing,  toward  the 
west.  Marshall's  chin  was  almost  on  his  breast. 
The  reins  were  loose,  and  the  noble  little  mare 
was  plying  her  swift  legs  so  easily  under  her  that 
her  high  head  and  shining  back  gave  hardly  a 
sign  of  effort.  She  let  the  dark  have  barely 
time  to  settle  over  the  rolling  fields  before  she 
stopped  of  her  own  accord  at  her  master's  home 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

gate.  Marshall  got  out  with  some  difficulty, 
and,  without  a  word  of  command,  she  walked 
through  the  gate  and  waited  for  him  to  climb 
in.  The  buggy  made  no  noise  on  the  thick 
turf,  and  no  one  was  in  sight  when  he  reached 
the  stiles. 

"Tom!" 

"Yessuh!" 

The  voice  came  from  a  whitewashed  cabin 
behind  a  clump  of  lilac,  and  an  old  negro  shuffled 
hastily  after  it.  The  young  fellow's  voice  was 
impatient.  A  woman's  figure  appeared  in  the 
doorway  under  the  sunrise  window-light  as  Mar 
shall  climbed  the  stiles. 

"Rannie!" 

"  Yes,  mother,"  he  answered;  and  he  held  his 
breath  while  she  kissed  him.  It  was  a  big  hall 
that  he  entered,  with  a  graceful,  semi-Oriental 
arch  midway,  and  two  doors  opening  on  either 
side.  The  parlor  was  lighted,  and  through  its 
door  old  furniture  and  old  portraits  were  visible ; 
and  ancient  wall-paper,  brought  from  England  a 
century  since,  blue  in  color,  with  clouds  painted 
under  the  high  ceiling,  and  an  English  stag-chase 
running  entirely  around  the  four  walls.  The 
ring  of  girlish  laughter  came  down  the  stairway 
as  Marshall  passed  into  the  dining-room.  His 
mother  had  gathered  in  a  little  house-party  of 
girls  from  the  neighborhood,  as  she  often  did,  to 

18 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

brighten  his  home-coming.  Supper  was  over, 
and  they  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of  young  men 
from  town.  Marshall  ate  little  and  had  little  to 
say,  and  very  slowly  a  shadow  passed  over  his 
mother's  brow  and  eyes. 

"  What's  wrong,  my  son?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  Nothing,  mother,  nothing.  Don't  bother." 
He  laughed  slightly.  "  Maybe  it's  because  I've 
got  a  rival." 

His  mother  smiled. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  with  her  " — he  laughed  again — 
"  at  least,  not  yet.  A  man  beat  me  speaking 
this  afternoon.  He  took  me  by  surprise,  but 
I'll  be  ready  for  him  next  time.  Still,  I'm  not 
very  well,  and  I  can't  go  into  the  parlor  to 
night.  Besides,  I've  got  some  writing  to  do. 
Tell  them  how  sorry  I  am,  won't  you?  "  He 
rose  from  his  seat,  for  he  could  hear  the  com 
ing  guests  in  the  hall.  "  Good-night,"  he  said; 
and  he  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  passed  be 
hind  her  chair,  but  the  shadow  that  was  there 
stayed. 

A  little  darky  girl  in  a  checked  cotton  dress 
lighted  his  way  outside  along  a  path  of  round- 
stone  flagging.  For  the  the  house  was  built  after 
the  earliest  colonial  fashion,  with  an  ell  left  and 
right — one  of  which,  disconnected  from  the 
house  and  called  the  "  office  "  in  slavery  days, 
had  been  Marshall's  room  since  the  day  he 

19 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

started  to  town  to  school.  It  signified  paternal 
trust;  it  meant  independence.  His  room  was 
ready.  The  student-lamp  was  lighted.  On  the 
table  was  a  vase  of  flowers  from  his  mother's 
garden,  and  he  sat  down  close  to  their  fragrance, 
and,  with  a  conscious  purpose  of  fulfilling  his 
word,  he  did  try  for  a  while  to  write.  But  his 
hand  shook,  and  he  arose  and  opened  a  pantry 
door  to  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  called  from 
the  window  for  old  Tom  to  bring  him  drinking- 
water.  The  glisten  of  glass-ware  came  through 
the  crack  of  the  pantry  door,  and  the  old  negro 
gave  it  one  sullen  glance  and  went  out  without 
speaking.  Marshall  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  room.  Once  he  stopped  at  the  mantel  to 
look  at  the  picture  of  a  very  young  girl  in  white 
muslin  and  with  a  big  Leghorn  hat  held  lightly 
by  one  slender  hand  in  her  lap.  Under  it  was 
a  scrawling  line,  "  To  Rannie  from  Anne."  He 
turned  sharply  away  and  sat  down  at  his  table 
again,  with  his  forehead  on  his  crossed  arms. 
There  had  been  no  trouble,  no  doubt,  between 
the  two  in  those  young  days.  Now  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  else;  and  it  was  in  one  of  these 
wretched  intervals  of  causeless  misunderstanding 
that  a  hulking  countryman  had  taught  him  his 
first  bitter  lesson  in  defeat  while  Anne  looked  on. 
They  were  having  a  good  time  in  the  parlor. 
Somebody  was  playing  a  waltz.  There  was  a 
20 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

ripple  of  light  laughter  through  the  hall  door, 
and  some  deep-voiced  young  fellow  was  talking 
low  on  the  porch  not  far  from  his  window.  The 
sounds  smote  him  with  a  sharp  pain  of  remote 
ness  from  it  all,  and  straightway  a  memory  be 
gan  to  bridge  the  gap  between  him  and  those 
other  days;  so  that  he  rose  presently  and  took 
down  the  picture  and  put  it  on  the  table  before 
him,  looking  at  it  steadily.  In  a  little  while  he 
unlocked  a  drawer  at  his  right  hand,  and  took 
out  a  note-book  and  began  with  the  beginning, 
slowly  turning  the  leaves.  It  was  filled  with  his 
own  manuscript.  Here  and  there  was  a  verse, 
"  To  Anne."  On  every  page,  from  every  para 
graph,  the  name  sprang  from  the  white  paper — 
Anne !  Anne !  Anne !  He  had  meant  to  burn 
that  book;  the  impulse  came  now,  as  always; 
but  now,  as  always,  he  went  on  turning  the 
leaves.  It  ran  back  years — to  the  childhood  of 
the  girl.  "  Her  father's  brain,  her  mother's 
heart,"  ran  one  line,  "  but  her  beauty  is  her 
own."  Some  of  the  verse  was  almost  good.  It 
was  Anne's  brow  here,  her  eyes  there,  her  mouth, 
her  hand,  her  arm;  "  that  arm,"  he  read,  smiling 
faintly — "  the  little  hollow  midway  from  which 
the  gracious,  lovely  lines  start  up  and  down.  It 
would  hold  the  rain  a  snowdrop  might  catch; 
dew  enough  for  the  bath — the  ivory  bath — of 
a  humming-bird;  enough  nectar  to  make  Cupid 
21 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

delirious,  were  he  to  use  it  for  a  drinking-cup. 
Looking  for  Psyche,  the  little  god  rests  there, 
no  doubt,  while  she  sleeps.  It  he  doesn't,  he  is 
blind,  indeed." 

Those  were  the  days  when  he  thought  he 
might  be  a  poet  or  a  novelist  if  either  were  a 
manlier  trade;  if  there  were  not  always  the  more 
serious  business  of  law  and  politics  to  which  he 
was  committed  by  inheritance.  Still  it  was  very 
foolish,  the  book,  and  with  the  impulse  again 
to  burn,  he  placed  it  back  in  the  drawer  and 
turned  the  key.  Then  he  put  the  picture  in  its 
place,  and  sat  down  again,  as  though  he  would 
go  on  with  his  work,  but,  instead,  reached  sud 
denly  across  the  table.  The  sound  of  old  Tom's 
banjo  was  coming  up  through  his  back  window 
from  the  lilacs  below,  and,  as  his  fingers  closed 
around  the  glass,  the  strum  started  up  before 
him  the  old  array  of  ever-weakening  visions — 
the  negro's  reproachful  look,  the  deepening 
shadows  in  his  mother's  face,  the  pain  in  Anne's 
clear  eyes — and  now  a  new  one,  the  figure  of  the 
mountaineer,  burly,  vivid,  and  so  menacing  that 
he  felt  nerve,  muscle,  and  brain  get  suddenly 
tense  as  though  to  meet  some  shock.  And  there 
was  his  hand  trembling  like  an  old  man's  under 
the  green  shade  of  the  lamp.  The  sight  smote 
him  through  with  a  fear  of  himself  so  sharp 
that  he  brushed  his  hands  rapidly  across  his  eyes, 

22 


THE    KEISTTUCKIANS 

and  with  tightened  lips  once  more  took  up  his 
pen. 

The  moon  looked  in  at  his  window  radiantly 
when  he  pushed  the  curtains  aside  to  close  a  shut 
ter,  so  that  he  changed  his  mind  about  going  to 
bed,  and  blew  out  his  lamp  and  sat  at  the  win 
dow,  looking  out.  The  young  men  were  going 
home.  He  heard  the  laughing  good-bys  in  the 
hall,  and  the  low,  laughing  talk  of  the  young 
fellows  where  they  were  unhitching  their  horses 
behind  the  shrubbery ;  then  the  soft  beat  of  hoofs 
and  wheels  on  the  turf,  the  loud  slam  of  the  pike 
gate,  and  the  wild  rush  of  the  young  bucks  racing 
each  other  home.  There  was  a  rustle  in  the  hall, 
the  closing  of  a  door  below,  a  shutter  above,  and 
the  house  was  still. 

Not  a  breath  of  air  moved  outside.  The 
white  aspens  were  quiet  as  the  sombre,  aged  pines 
that  had  been  brought  over  from  old  Hanover, 
in  Virginia,  and  stood  with  proud  solemnity  be 
fitting  the  honor.  Across  the  meadow  came  the 
low  bellow  of  a  restless  bull;  nearer,  the  tinkle 
of  a  sheep-bell ;  and  closer,  the  drowsy  twitter  of 
birds  in  the  lilac-bushes  at  the  garden  gate.  Be 
yond  the  lawn  and  the  mock-orange  hedge  was 
the  woodland,  with  its  sinuous  line  of  soft  shadow 
against  the  sky,  and  the  broken  moonlight  under 
its  low  branches.  Primitive  soil,  that  woodland ; 
no  plough  had  run  a  furrow  through  it;  no  white 

23 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

man  had  called  it  his  own  before  the  boy's  great 
forefather,  asleep  under  the  wrinkled  pines. 
How  full  of  peace  it  was — how  still ! 

Over  in  the  other  ell,  his  mother  had  gone  to 
sleep  with  the  last  prayer  on  her  lips,  the  last 
thought  in  her  heart,  for  him.  She  had  taken 
him  with  her  into  dreamland,  no  doubt.  She 
was  affected,  his  mother,  so  a  teasing  old  aunt 
had  told  him — and  her;  but  never  in  his  life 
could  he  remember  her  perfect  poise  of  body  and 
soul  to  waver,  her  sweet  dignity  to  unbend. 
Proud,  but  very  gentle,  her  face  was — he  knew 
but  one  other  like  it.  "  To  be  your  father's  wife 
and  your  mother,  my  son,"  he  had  heard  her,  in 
simple  faith,  once  say.  That  was  her  mission  on 
earth.  And  what  a  mission  he  was  making  for 
that  gracious  life ! 

In  the  dark  parlor,  just  through  the  wall  of 
his  room,  were  Jouett  portraits  of  his  kinspeople 
— of  the  great  Marshall,  whose  great  day  people 
said  he  was  to  bring  back.  Next  him  was  that 
Marshall's  youngest  son,  a  proud-looking  young 
fellow  with  a  noble  face  and  a  quiet  smile,  who 
had  died  early,  and  who,  the  old  aunt  said,  was 
the  more  brilliant  of  the  two.  Rannie  was  like 
that  great-uncle,  she  used  often  to  say.  And 
he,  Marshall  knew,  had  quietly  and  with  beauti 
ful  dignity  drunk  himself  to  death  for  a  woman. 
Men  could  do  that  in  his  day.  Men  had — the 

24 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

young  fellow  rose,  shivering  from  another  rea 
son  than  the  cooling  night  air;  it  still  was  pos 
sible. 

Over  the  quiet  fields  of  blue-grass  and  young 
wheat  and  blossoming  clover,  in  the  capital, 
Boone  Stallard  was  looking  from  his  window  on 
the  prison,  white  in  the  moonlight  as  a  sepulchre, 
and  on  the  bleak  cliff  rising  behind  it;  and  his 
last  thoughts,  too,  were  on  his  home  and  his  peo 
ple  ;  the  old  two-roomed  log  cabin  with  its  long 
porch  and  long  slanting  roof,  Black  Mountain 
rising  in  a  sheer  wall  of  green  behind  it,  and  a 
little  creek  tinkling  under  laurel  and  rhododen 
dron  into  the  Cumberland;  his  mother,  gaunt, 
aged,  in  brown  homespun,  with  her  pipe,  in  a 
corner  of  the  fireplace;  opposite,  his  sister — 
whose  husband  had  been  killed  in  the  feud — 
with  a  worn,  pallid  face  and  dull  eyes;  his  half- 
brother,  cleaning  his  Winchester,  no  doubt;  the 
children  in  bed ;  the  talk  of  the  feud,  always  the 
feud.  They  were  all  Stallards  on  that  creek, 
just  as  in  the  next  bend  of  the  river  all  were 
Keatons — their  hereditary  enemies.  They  were 
"  a  high-heeled  and  over-bearin'  race,"  the  Stal 
lards  were ;  and  they  were  hated  and  fought,  and 
they  hated  and  fought  back,  with  the  end  not  yet 
come.  All  his  life,  Boone  Stallard  had  known; 
only  hardship,  work,  self-denial.  There  was  n&> 
love  of  sloth,  no  vice  of  blood,  to  stunt  his 
25 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

growth ;  as  yet,  no  love  of  woman  to  confuse  his 
purpose,  nor  inspire  it. 

Not  once  did  the  two  currents  cross  but  on 
the  thinkers  themselves;  on  nothing  else — not 
even  on  Anne. 


26 


IV 

A  WEEK  later  the  Mansion  was  thrown 
open,  for  the  third  time  during  the  ses 
sion,  to  the  law-makers  and  their  wives.  Stal- 
lard,  Colton  said,  must  go;  and  Colton's  word, 
now,  was  to  the  good-natured  mountaineer  little 
short  of  law. 

He  had  found  an  unknown  ally  when  he 
opened  the  great  Kentucky  daily  on  the  morning 
after  his  first  fight.  There  was  a  long  account 
of  the  debate,  a  strong  tribute  to  "  The  Cumber 
land  Cyclone,"  as  Colton,  the  correspondent, 
called  him,  and  an  editorial  on  the  question  that 
bore  the  distinctive  ear-marks  of  the  great  man 
in  charge.  That  same  morning,  when  the  ques 
tion  of  disruption  came  up,  a  member  who  had 
considerable  aspiration,  some  foresight,  and  no 
principles  to  make  or  mar  his  future,  and  who 
knew  he  would  help  himself  in  another  section 
and  not  harm  himself  in  his  own,  rose  and  took 
sides  with  Stallard,  emphasizing  the  editor's  em 
phasis  of  Stallard's  idea  that  the  mountain  people 
must  some  day  govern  themselves,  and,  there 
fore,  would  be  better  let  alone  now.  To  the  sur- 
27 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

prise  of  all,  Marshall  rose  and  stated  frankly 
the  lack  of  positive  knowledge  on  which  he  had 
spoken  the  day  before.  While  he  must  hold  to 
certain  opinions  expressed,  he  recognized  the 
possibility  of  having  done  the  mountain  people 
wrong  in  certain  statements  made;  that  time 
would  soon  prove. 

Meanwhile,  he  would  withdraw  his  motion, 
with  the  consent  of  the  House,  and  counsel  fur 
ther  forbearance  on  the  part  of  the  State.  It 
was  graceful,  magnanimous,  gallant;  but  Col- 
ton,  watching  the  mountaineer's  face,  saw  not 
a  muscle  of  it  move.  Marshall's  bill  was  put 
aside  for  the  time.  The  mountain  members, 
headed  by  Jack  Mockaby,  drew  close  to  Stallard, 
and,  before  noon  of  his  second  day  at  the  capital, 
Stallard  found  himself  a  man  of  mark,  and  with 
a  following  that  in  all  legislative  questions  could 
exact  consideration.  And  for  the  hour  of  that 
noon  his  head  swam  and  got  steady  again;  for 
his  brain  was  as  sane  as  his  purpose  was  firm. 
Of  his  gift  of  oratory,  he  took  as  little  thought 
as  a  bird  takes  of  its  gift  of  song.  He  neither 
drank  nor  gambled,  and  as  he  kept  aloof  from 
all  social  affairs,  he  wasted  neither  his  energy  nor 
his  time.  Few  committees  of  importance  were 
appointed  upon  which  he  did  not  have  a  place, 
and  his  capacity  for  work  was  prodigious.  In 
Colton  he  came  at  once  to  know  his  best  friend, 

28 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

and  every  few  days  he  saw  his  name  prominent 
in  the  reports  of  legislative  doings.  These 
would  slowly  make  their  way  home  to  the  moun 
tains,  and  Stallard  knew  his  seat  Was  secure  for 
another  term  unless  the  feud  intervened.  Once 
even,  in  the  first  flush  of  his  success,  the  dome  of 
the  big  Capitol  floated  a  little  while  along  the 
horizon  of  his  heated  vision,  and  sank.  For 
Stallard's  second  thought  and  his  last  were  ever 
for  his  people;  and  he  watched  their  welfare 
with  an  eye  that  let  no  measure  escape  that  might 
be  of  possible  help  to  them.  Thus  far  he  had 
given  no  thought  to  anything  but  work,  and  now 
Colton  said  that,  out  of  respect  to  the  Governor 
who  had  been  kind  to  him,  Stallard  must  go  to 
the  Mansion.  So  he  had  dressed  himself  in  his 
best — which  was  quite  bad — had  walked  twice 
past  the  brilliantly  lighted  old  house,  and  in  hope 
less  indecision  had  started,  for  the  second  time, 
home.  Inside,  Anne  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  big 
square  drawing-room,  watching  the  late-coming 
guests.  Colton  was  on  the  sofa  beside  her  and 
Marshall  stood  just  to  one  side.  The  two  men 
did  not  like  each  other,  and  for  that  reason  Col 
ton  rattled  on  in  his  talk  recklessly.  The  receiv 
ing-line  of  young  women  in  white  was  broken, 
and  the  rather  chill  formality  of  the  occasion 
dissolved.  Occasionally  some  little  woman,  trip 
ping  past,  would  ask,  naively,  "  Oh,  you  haven't 
29 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

met  my  husband?  "  And  off  she  would  go  for 
the  embryonic  statesman.  Dress  and  manners 
made  Anne  shudder  now  and  then,  but  no  sign 
arose  above  the  fine  courtesy  that  made  social 
democracy  in  her  own  home  absolute;  and,  un 
failingly,  she  presented  Marshall,  who  bowed 
with  perfect  gravity  to  the  absurd  little  ducks 
and  curtseys  made  him.  Colton,  who  knew 
everybody,  was  giving  pen-and-ink  sketches  right 
and  left. 

They  were  all  there — from  the  Peavine  to  the 
Purchase,  through  blue-grass,  bear-grass,  and 
pennyroyal;  from  Mammoth  Cave  and  Geth- 
semane,  the  Knobs  and  the  Benson  Hills;  from 
aristocratic  Fayette  and  Bourbon,  "sweet  Owen" 
fortress  of  democracy,  to  border  Harlan,  hot-bed 
of  the  feud;  from  the  Mississippi  to  Hell-fer-Sar- 
tain  Creek  in  bloody  Breathitt.  Those  were  the 
contrasting  soils,  social  sections,  and  divisions  of 
vegetation  on  which  the  devil  was  said  to  have 
slyly  put  a  thumb  of  reservation  when  he  offered 
the  earth  to  his  great  Conqueror  ("  and  some 
times,"  said  Colton,  "  I  think  the  reservation 
was  granted  ") .  All  this  the  magic  name  of  old 
Kentucky  meant  to  her  loyal  sons,  who  are  to  this 
country  what  the  Irishman  is  to  the  world;  and 
who,  no  matter  where  cast,  remain  what  they 
were  born — Kentuckians — to  the  end.  The 
Virginia  cavalier  was  there,  he  went  on,  with  a 
3° 


\ 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

side-glance  at  Marshall;  the  Scotch-Irishman, 
who  had  taken  on  the  cavalier's  polish  and  lost 
nothing  of  his  own  strength;  the  "  pore  white 
trash  " — now  risen  in  the  world;  the  kinless  non 
descript — himself,  for  instance;  the  political 
grandee  of  the  cross-roads — he  of  the  Clay  man 
ner  and  the  Websterian  brow  across  the  room. 
He  always  made  afternoon  calls  in  his  dress  suit. 
There  was  Jack  Mockaby  from  Breathitt,  who 
was  expecting  arrest  each  day  last  year  for  a  little 
feud  of  his  own,  while  he  was  in  the  House  mak 
ing  laws  for  the  rest  of  the  State.  The  gaunt 
individual  at  the  door  was  another  mountaineer. 
He  had  brought  his  wife  with  him  to  the  "  settle- 
mints."  Once  she  had  been  asked  if  she  were 
going  to  the  theatre.  She  "  'lowed  she  was,  but 
she  didn't  aim  to  take  part."  And  she  did  go, 
and  she  took  down  her  hair  before  the  curtain 
went  up,  gave  it  a  little  brush  or  two,  and  slowly 
rolled  it  up  in  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.. 
On  a  fishing  trip,  Colton  had  taken  dinner  with, 
one  of  his  member's  constituents.  They  hadl 
corn-bread  and  potatoes. 

'*  Take  out,  stranger,"  said  the  mountaineen 
"  Hev  a  tater;  take  two  of  'em;  take  damn  nigh 
all  of  'em." 

Oh,  they  were  a  strange  people,  these  moun 
taineers — proud,  hospitable,  good-hearted,  and 
murderous !  Religious,  too :  they  talked  chiefly 
31 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

of  homicide  and  the  Bible.  He  knew  of  an  aw 
ful  fight  that  came  up  over  a  discussion  on  origi 
nal  sin.  Yes,  they  were  queer;  but  there  was 
one — Boone  Stallard  was  his  name — Miss  Anne 
had  heard  him  speak?  Colton  thought  he  could 
make  something  of  him. 

"  They  call  him  the  *  Cumberland  Cyclone ' 
now:  that's  mine,  that  phrase.  Pretty  good, 
isn't  it?  They  will  run  him  against  Marshall 
for  Speaker  next  year,"  he  added,  with  innocent 
malice;  "  mark  my  words.  He's  a  coming  man 
— but  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  coming  here  very 
fast.  He  said  he  would.  If  he  doesn't  show 
up  in  five  minutes,  I'm  going  after  him.  It'll 
be  his  debut,  and  I'm  his  chaperon.  Ah " 

The  information  was  not  worth  while. 
Though  smilingly  interested  in  Colton's  light 
nonsense,  she  was  glancing  now  and  then  at  the 
door,  where  her  father  was  receiving  the  last 
stragglers;  and,  looking  at  her,  Marshall  knew 
when  she  saw  the  mountaineer,  and  he  smiled: 
her  interest  amused  him.  Stallard's  big  form  was 
in  the  doorway.  His  eyes  were  roving  helplessly 
up  and  down  the  room,  and  his  face,  despite  its 
gravity,  wore  so  pained  a  look  that  the  girl  her 
self  half  rose.  But  the  Governor  had  stepped 
forward  and,  holding  the  new-comer's  arm,  was 
leading  him  across  the  room  toward  her. 

"  Anne,  I  want  to  present  Mr.  Stallard  to  you 
32 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

— Mr.  Boone  Stallard.  Mr.  Marshall,  Mr. 
Stallard — you  two  should  know  each  other ;  and 
Mr.  Colton  you  know,  of  course." 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand.  Marshall,  with 
punctilious  courtesy,  was  putting  out  his  when  he 
met  Stallard's  eye.  The  mountaineer  knew  no 
polite  law  that  bade  him,  feeling  one  way,  to  act 
another;  and  what  he  felt,  he  made  plain.  Mar 
shall  straightened  like  steel.  It  was  a  declara 
tion  of  war,  open,  mutual;  and  Colton,  with  a 
quick  breath,  half  rose  from  his  seat.  The  Gov 
ernor,  turning  away,  saw  nothing,  and  Anne's 
eyes  were  lowered  suddenly  to  the  white  point 
of  one  of  her  slippers. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Marshall,  with  quick  tact; 
"  your  father  is  calling  me."  And  he  bowed 
himself  away  and  toward  the  Governor,  who 
was  passing  through  the  door. 

Colton  turned  to  Anne's  friend,  Katherine 
Craig,  who  sat  at  his  right,  and  whose  eyes  had 
lost  nothing.  Stallard  crossed  his  big  hands  awk 
wardly  in  front  of  him,  and  stood  with  one  foot 
advanced  and  the  knee  bent.  He  wore  a  great 
Prince  Albert  coat,  which  was  longer  in  front 
than  behind,  and  high  boots  which  showed  to 
their  tops  under  his  trousers.  They  were  care 
fully  blackened,  and  the  feet  were  large — so  was 
the  man.  Anne  saw  all  these  details  before  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  then  for  a  while  she 
33 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

quite  forgot  them.  They  were  calm,  open  eyes 
that  she  saw,  quite  dark  but  luminous,  and  they 
quietly  held  hers  in  a  way  that  made  her  wonder 
then  whether  it  might  not  be  hard  for  some 
woman,  against  his  will,  to  turn  her  own  aside. 
Yet  they  were  timid  too,  and  kindly,  while  the 
strong  mouth  was  for  the  moment  hard;  it  still 
held  the  antagonism  that  elsewhere  in  the  rugged 
face  was  gone. 

"  I  heard  your  speech,"  she  said,  friendlily. 
"  I  want  to  congratulate  you.  You  gave  us  all 
a  surprise — especially  Mr.  Marshall." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  he  said, 
slowly  and  with  great  care,  almost  as  if  he  were 
speaking  another  tongue.  "  I  don't  recollect  that 
I  saw  you  there.  I  reckon  I  didn't  look  around 
at  the  gallery." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  smile;  "  you  were  not 
very  gallant." 

She  was  sorry  when  the  words  left  her  mouth, 
the  big  man  looked  so  helpless.  But  no  woman 
minds  if  the  strong  are  shy,  and  she  went  on  a 
little  blindly:  "  Now  Mr.  Marshall  paid  us  a 
pretty  compliment."  If  she  were  uncertain  as 
to  the  little  start  he  gave  when  she  mentioned 
Marshall's  name  just  before,  she  was  not  now. 
The  repression  at  his  lips  spread  to  his  eyes, 
his  brow,  and  his  nostrils,  and  he  did  not  look 
pleasant.  She  did  not  know  why  she  should 
34 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

press  the  point  further,  but  the  impulse  was 
irresistible. 

"  Mr.  Marshall  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,"  she 
added,  her  self-control  fluttering,  and  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  see  what  should  come  into  his,  and 
she  was  frightened.  She  knew  little  of  the  strict 
ethics  that  governed  his  life  in  the  matter  of 
friendship ;  if  Marshall  was  her  friend,  then  she 
was  the  mountaineer's  enemy;  but  with  a  flash 
she  caught  the  thought  in  his  mind  and,  with  it, 
too,  his  suspicion  that  she  had  meant  to  make  the 
fact  of  her  friendship  for  Marshall  plain. 

"  I  hope  you  two  will  like  each  other,"  she 
added,  quickly,  and  with  a  vague  purpose  of 
somehow  putting  herself  to  rights ;  but  the  moun 
taineer  stared  merely. 

"  I  don't  think  we  will,"  he  said,  bluntly. 
Again  Anne's  eyes  went  for  refuge  back  to  the 
point  of  her  slipper,  and  luckily  for  both,  just 
then,  the  Governor  came  to  take  Stallard  away. 
Colton  and  Katherine  turned. 

"  How  did  you  get  along?  "  asked  Colton. 
Anne  laughed.  Her  cheeks  were  a  bright  red, 
and  Colton  began  to  wonder. 

"  Not  very  well.  It  was  dreadful.  He's  half 
a  savage.  He  made  me  afraid." 

Marshall  was  coming  up  behind  her,  and  could 
not  help  but  hear  what  pleases  no  lover — fear  in 
a  woman  of  another  man.  His  manner  was  light 
35 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

and  spirited,  and  he  laughed  in  a  way  that  made 
her  look  sharply  up. 

u  Good-night."  His  face  was  flushed,  and 
Anne's  hardened  a  little  while  she  looked  after 
him.  Stallard  did  not  come  to  bid  her  good 
night,  and  she  guessed  the  truth — that  he  did  not 
know  it  was  necessary.  Still  he  should  have 
wanted  to  come,  she  thought,  imperiously;  and 
she  did  not  guess  the  truth  of  that — that,  much 
puzzled,  he  had  wanted  to  come;  that  he  had 
passed  the  rear  door  to  look  at  her,  and  had 
stood  a  long  while,  staring  at  her  strangely;  that 
he  had  hesitated,  through  sheer  fear,  to  speak 
to  her  again,  and,  vaguely  distressed,  had  slipped 
away  without  a  word  to  anybody. 

For  a  long  while,  after  the  guests  were  gone, 
she  sat  thinking  under  the  pink  drop-light  in  her 
father's  study.  It  had  been  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  for  so  long  with  Marshall — peace,  a 
foolish  quarrel,  the  wine-room  and  the  card- 
table;  some  wild  deed,  contrition,-  pardon,  and 
peace  again.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  second 
stage  now,  and  she  looked  a  little  bitter,  and  then 
she  sighed  helplessly,  as  though  she  would  as  well 
make  ready  now  to  forgive  him  again.  When 
she  thought  of  Stallard,  she  found  herself  going 
back  again  to  Marshall's  graduating-day.  That 
was  odd,  but  the  fact  slipped  unnoticed  through 
her  consciousness,  for  she  was  wishing  that  Mar- 

36 


THE    KENTUCKJANS 

shall  had  the  strength  that  she  believed  was  the 
mountaineer's.  What  might  he  not  do  then? 
Then,  perhaps,  everything  might  be  otherwise. 
And  thinking  of  the  mountaineer  again,  there 
came  again,  out  of  the  past,  the  hot  air  of  the  old 
university  hall ;  and  now,  as  then,  she  was  walk 
ing  out  on  the  big  portico  to  escape  it.  That  day 
she  had  dropped  her  parasol  down  the  great 
flight  of  stone  steps.  A  rough-looking  country 
boy  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  big  pillars, 
staring  at  her.  She  waited  for  him  to  pick  it  up, 
but  he  never  took  his  eyes  from  her  face,  and 
she  got  it  herself.  She  had  thought  him  stupid 
and  impolite,  and  she  never  knew  what  fixed  the 
incident  in  her  mind,  unless  it  was  the  boy's  in 
tent  stare  and  his  shock  of  black  hair.  Even  now 
her  memory  of  the  incident  had  no  significance, 
for  she  was  busy  thinking  how  absurd  the  con 
trast  was  between  the  mountaineer's  face  and  his 
dress,  and  wondering  why  it  was  that,  once,  some 
look  in  the  man's  eyes  should  have  given  her 
such  a  pang  of  pity  for  him.  He  must  have 
miserably  misunderstood  her  that  night,  and  no 
wonder;  she  must  make  that  right,  and  quickly. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  is  there  any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  ask  that  Mr. — Boone — Stallard  " — 
she  pronounced  the  name  slowly — "  to  dinner?  " 

"Why,  no,  Anne;  why  not?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  didn't  know.  He's  so  queer. 
37 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

He's  so  diffident — it's  absurd  in  such  a  big  man 
— and  then  he  isn't.  I  wonder  that  he  came  to 
night." 

"  It  was  Colton's  doing,  I  imagine,"  said  the 
Governor,  rising  to  fill  his  pipe;  "  and  then  I  sup 
pose  he  thought  he  owed  especial  courtesy  to  me. 
I  let  out  a  pretty  bad  convict  on  parole  not  long 
ago,  at  his  request-— a  mountaineer." 

"  Who  is  he?  "  she  asked,  so  absent-mindedly 
that  the  Governor  turned. 

"Who  is  who?"  he  answered,  smiling;  and 
then,  u  Why,  you  remember,  surely.  Marshall 
introduced  a  bill  to  abolish  his  county  the  other 
day.  He  belongs  to  one  of  the  factions  that  are 
making  trouble  in  the  mountains.  I  suppose  one- 
fourth  of  the  people  in  his  county  have  the  name 
of  Stallard.  And  they  are  worse  about  stretch 
ing  kinship  down  there  than  we  are." 

The  girl  rose  to  go  to  her  room,  and  the  Gov 
ernor  called  to  her  again,  and  she  stopped  under 
the  light  of  the  stairway,  with  her  dreaming  face 
uplifted,  the  hem  of  her  gown  raised  from  one 
arched  foot,  and  one  white  hand  on  the  banister 

-  —and  nobody  there  to  see ! 

"  By  the  way,  can't  you  make  use  of  a  trusty 
for  a  day  or  two  in  the  garden?  I'll  send  you 

*  feudsman,  if  you  are  getting  interested  in  the 
nountaineers.     I  made  still  another  trusty  not 
long  ago,  at  the  warden's  request.    The  moun- 

38 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 


taineers  can't  stand  confinement,  he  says,  having 
lived  all  their  lives  in  the  open  air.  Can  you 
give  one  something  to  do  ?  " 

Anne's  lips  parted  and  her  eyes  closed  sleepily. 
"  Yes,"  she  said. 


39 


A  FORTNIGHT  later,  Anne  sat  in  the 
shade  of  her  grape-arbor,  directing  the 
leisurely  labor  of  the  "  trusty  "  who  had  come 
over  from  the  gloomy  prison  whose  high  gray 
walls  and  peaked  roof,  with  its  ceaseless  column 
of  black  smoke,  were  visible  over  the  houses  that 
sat  between. 

Her  dinner  had  taken  place  a  few  nights  be 
fore.  Stallard  was  not  only  not  there — he  had 
not  even  answered  her  note  of  invitation.  Col- 
ton  laughed  when  she  told  him.  He  could  not 
explain  it,  but  he  knew  why  the  mountaineer  had 
probably  not  come.  Stallard  had  been  hard  at 
work;  he  was  not  merely  an  orator;  he  shirked 
no  work,  and  he  read  law  steadily.  He  had  not 
answered,  perhaps,  because  he  did  not  know  the 
social  need  of  an  answer.  He  might  have  turned 
up  at  the  dinner  without  having  sent  his  accept 
ance  ;  that  was  as  likely  as  what  he  had  done.  It 
was  all  doubtless  true,  and  the  girl  wanted  to  be 
lieve  that  it  was.  Still,  it  was  the  harder  to  be 
lieve  for  the  reason  that  it  was  altogether  of  a 
piece  with  the  usual  way  of  a  man  who  seemed 
40 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

to  swerve  aside  for  nothing,  and  who  bore  him 
self  toward  her  as  she  had  all  her  life  borne 
herself  toward  all  men.  And  young  as  she  was, 
Anne's  reign  had  been  a  long  one.  Even  as  a 
school-girl  she  had  her  little  local  court  of  sweet 
hearts,  which  widened  rapidly,  as  she  grew  older, 
through  the  county,  through  several  counties, 
through  even  the  confines  of  the  State.  It  was 
a  social  condition  already  passing  away;  the 
pretty  young  queen  and  the  manly  young  fellows 
doing  her  honor  with  such  loyalty  —  openly, 
frankly  her  slaves — to  themselves,  to  one  an 
other,  and  to  the  world;  declaring  love  one  after 
another  in  turn,  leaving  her  with  a  passionate 
resolution  to  throw  off  the  yoke,  and  bending 
meekly  to  it  again.  For  usually  she  kept  the 
lover  the  friend  even  after  as  lover  he  was  hope 
less,  if  the  lover  ever  is.  Occasionally,  however, 
some  young  fellow,  a  little  fiercer  than  usual, 
would  stalk  away  through  the  hall,  bang  the 
door  a  little  more  loudly,  and  really  come  back  no 
more.  Then  Anne  would  go  to  her  room  and 
cry  half  the  night  through,  to  learn  soon  that  he 
had  gone  elsewhere  for  solace,  and  that  her  place 
was  filled.  Soon  she  could  smile  when  some 
young  heart  went  broken  from  her  to  mend  no 
more;  and,  thereafter,  she  cried  sometimes  only 
because  she  was  losing  a  friend.  By  and  by  some 
of  her  courtiers  married,  some  went  other  ways, 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

but  of  the  original  court  a  few  were  still  left,  and 
of  them  Marshall  was  one.  He  was  the  oldest, 
the  most  faithful  and  untiring.  His  strength, 
aside  from  birth,  was  in  oratory  and  politics,  for 
which  the  girl,  coming  from  a  race  of  lawyers 
and  statesmen,  had  an  innate  predilection;  so 
that,  in  spite  of  his  wild  ways,  general  expecta 
tion,  which  looks  to  the  untiring  to  win  in  love, 
as  in  everything  else,  rested  on  Marshall.  Still 
he  had  not  won,  and  Anne  kept  on  her  placid, 
queenly  way,  holding  every  man  her  friend  be 
cause  she  was  fair  with  all  and  loved  no  one  less 
than  his  rival.  What  the  trouble  was,  nobody 
knew  precisely — not  Marshall — not  even  Anne. 
Once  her  mother,  remembering  the  boy's  inheri 
tance,  had  given  her  gentle  warning  against  in 
trusting  herself  to  him;  and  his  reckless  way  of 
life  kept  the  warning  always  in  mind.  Always, 
perhaps,  Marshall's  perfect  loyalty  had  kept  her 
from  knowing  how  strong  her  own  feeling  was 
for  him.  And  then,  as  she  grew  older,  she  slow 
ly  came  to  exact,  what  few  women  do,  that  a 
man  shall  be  making  an  honest  effort  to  realize 
the  best  that  is  in  him.  That  Marshall,  brilliant 
and  winning  as  he  was,  had  never  done.  It  was 
the  contrast  in  this  one  particular  that  was  help 
ing  arouse  her  interest  in  the  mountaineer.  One 
look  in  his  face,  and  doubt  on  that  question,  as  to 
Stallard,  was  at  rest.  Moreover,  she  had  a  swift 
42 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

sympathetic  insight  into  what  was  best  in  the 
humanity  around  her,  and  this  told  her  that  in 
this  rugged  rustic  was  more  hidden  power  than 
she  had  ever  found  in  any  one  man.  He  was  the 
first  man  with  whom  it  had  been  necessary  for 
her  to  be  the  first  to  hold  out  her  hand,  in  simple 
kindliness  at  the  start,  and  then  for  the  mere  self- 
acknowledged  reason  that  he  was  the  first  to 
reach  her  intellect,  as  somebody  might  some  day 
reach  her  heart.  Necessarily,  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  met  with  no  response.  To  say  that  she 
was  piqued  would  be  absurd ;  to  say  that  her  in 
terest  was  not  deepened  would  be  to  say  that  she 
was  not  a  woman  and  not  human.  She  had 
thought  of  the  man  a  good  deal ;  she  would  tell 
anybody  that.  She  wanted  to  know  of  him,  and 
Colton  had  told  her  much,  and  everything  was 
of  interest.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  mountains, 
nothing  of  the  people  who  lived  in  them.  Since 
she  had  lived  at  the  Capitol,  she  had  watched  the 
raftsmen  coming  down  the  river;  once,  she  had 
seen  a  crowd  of  dusty,  wild-looking  men  empty 
from  the  train  under  charge  of  an  officer,  and  she 
had  been  told  that  they  were  moonshiners ;  that 
was  all.  No  more  did  she  know  of  the  highlands 
of  the  east,  and  no  more  of  the  people  who 
sprang  from  them.  But  Colton — the  subject 
was  getting  to  be  a  hobby  with  him — had  told 
her  all  he  knew  and  much  more.  Her  personal 
43 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

interest  in  Stallard  helped  her  interest  in  his  peo 
ple.  He  was  the  first  mountaineer  she  had  seen 
close  at  hand.  The  second  was  in  her  garden 
before  her,  and  she  had  no  way  of  knowing  that 
both  were  exceptional.  The  convict  was  young 
and  rather  good-looking.  He  had  a  mat  of 
close-cut  black  hair  and  a  swarthy  face.  His 
eyes  were  dark,  bright,  open,  and  frankly  curious. 
The  face  was  almost  good,  except  for  the  small^ 
loose,  beautiful  mouth,  which,  with  all  its  easy 
good-humor,  showed  to  a  close  study  as  sensual 
and  rather  cruel.  She  had  hesitated  at  first  about 
giving  him  orders. 

"  Ah,  what  is  your  name,  please?  " 

*'  Buck/'  he  said,  without  looking  at  her. 

"Buck  what  ?" 

"  Buck's  enough,  hain't  it?  "  he  said,  a  little 
surlily. 

"  Yes,"  she  saidv  quietly.  "  I  want  you  to  go 
on  that  side  and  hoe  around  those  rose-bushes 
there." 

The  young  fellow  went  to  work  without  a 
word.  The  trusties  earn  their  liberty  at  a  sacri 
fice  of  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellow-prisoners ; 
but  the  young  mountaineer  was  sick  for  the  open 
air;  moreover,  he  was  doing  a  woman's  work 
under  a  woman's  supervision;  and  he  was  not 
pleased.  He  worked  very  well,  but  he  seemed 
weak.  His  cheeks  soon  took  on  a  high  color;  he 
44 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

breathed  hard,  and  he  looked  feverish.  The 
stripes  must  be  hot  and  suffocating,  Anne 
thought  on  a  sudden,  and  she  spoke  to  him  again 
very  kindly. 

"  You  must  stop  awhile  now;  the  sun  is  too 
hot.  Sit  down  there  and  rest." 

The  convict  sat  down  readily  enough.  Anne 
turned  away  to  look  across  the  street  and  nod  to 
a  passing  friend,  and,  when  she  turned  back,  he 
was  looking  with  boyish  directness  straight  at 
her. 

"  Hit's  Buck  Stallard." 

The  girl  started.  Then  it  dawned  that  the 
abrupt  giving  of  his  name  was  an  apology,  and 
she  smiled. 

"  You  come  from  Roland  County?  " 

The  boy  nodded.     "  Yes,"  he  said. 

41  That's  where  all  the  trouble  is  going  on?  " 

"  Yes."  She  wondered  why  he  didn't  say, 
"  Yes,  ma'am."  "  That's  what  I'm  doin'  over 
thar,"  he  went  on,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  to 
ward  the  prison.  "*  Thar's  two  of  us  in  thar, 
an'  I  reckon  thar'll  be  more,  ef  the  boys  at  home 
don't  watch  out." 

Most  of  the  prisoners  would  say  they  were  in 
for  fighting,  for  manslaughter  even,  rather  than 
confess  to  theft  or  some  other  petty  crime — a 
curious  commentary  on  the  public  sentiment  with 
in  and  without  the  sombre  walls.  Anne  knew 
45 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

that,  but  she  had  little  doubt  that  in  this  case  the 
convict  was  telling  the  truth,  and  she  was  inured 
to  the  point  where  she  did  not  shrink. 

"  Ever  heerd  o'  Boone  Stallard?  " 

The  question  took  her  off  guard,  and  the  next 
moment  she  felt  herself  coloring  under  the  boy's 
keen  look. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  calmly;  "  I  heard  him  make 
a  speech  the  other  day." 

"  Did  ye?  "  he  asked,  smiling.  "  Thar  hain't 
nobody  as  can  down  Boone  on  languige.  Me  an' 
Boone's  kin,"  he  said,  a  little  proudly,  but  he 
was  watching  her  closely  and  feeling  his  way 
with  care.  "  We's  all  kin  down  thar." 

That  was  what  her  father  had  said,  and  she 
herself  knew  what  it  was  to  have  many  kins- 
people,  and  a  few  of  whom  she  was  not  proud. 

"  Has  he  ever  taken  part  in  the  feud?  "  she 
asked;  and  again  the  boy  eyed  her  cautiously. 

"  Naw,"  he  said,  frankly,  satisfied  with  his  in 
spection.  "  Boone's  al'ays  a-tryin'  to  git  us  fel 
lers  to  quit.  Boone's  fer  law  an'  order  ever' 
time,  Boone  is.  Thar  hain't  nobody  down  thar 
like  Boone.  He  ain't  afeerd  nother.  Ever'body 
knows  that.  He's  plum'  crazy  'bout  the  sanctaty 
of  the  law  an'  his  dooty — that's  somep'n  he 
picked  up  from  you  furriners  when  he  was  out 
in  the  settlemints,  I  reckon.  He'll  git  into  it 
some  o'  these  days  now,  you  see ;  fer  he'll  go  ef 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

he  thinks  he  ought  to.  An'  then  thar'll  be  Billy- 
hell  to  pay.  You  see !  " 

Again  the  girl  started,  but  the  boy  was  look 
ing  away  in  complete  innocence  of  giving  offence, 
absorbed  no  doubt  in  picturing  just  what  would 
happen  should  Boone  Stallard  some  day  take 
part.  She  remembered,  too,  that  Colton  said 
the  mountaineers  still  talked  even  before  their 
women  with  Anglo-Saxon  freedom,  and  that 
their  oaths  were  little  more  to  them  than  slang 
was  to  the  outside  world. 

"  Boone's  about  the  only  Stallard  as  hain't  in 
it;  and  Stallards  air  as  thick  down  thar  as  red 
heads  in  a  deadenin'." 

"  As  what!  " 

"  Red-heads — woodpeckers — in  a  deadenin' 
— a  place  whar  folks  have  cut  the  bark  off  o' 
trees  to  kill  'em.  The  red-heads  goes  thar  'cause 
hit's  easier  fer  Jem  to  peck  holes  in  dead  trees. 
Sometimes  I  think  you  furriners  knows  most 
ever'thing,  an'  ag'in  you  don't  seem  to  know 
much."  Anne  came  near  laughing  aloud.  Here 
was  a  character. 

"  What  makes  you  fight  that  way?  " 

The  boy  laughed.  "  Well,  suppose  some  sorry 
feller  was  to  shoot  your  brother  or  your  dad 
dy,  an'  the  high-sheriff  was  afeerd  o'  him  an1 
wouldn't  arrest  him,  whut  would  you  do  ?  You 
know  mighty  well.  You'd  just  go  git  yo'  gun 
47 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

an'  let  him  have  it.  That's  what.  Then  mebbe 
his  brother  would  layway  you ;  an'  all  yo'  folks 
'ud  git  mad  an'  take  hit  up;  an'  things  'ud  git 
frolicsome  ginerally.  Whut's  yo'  name  ?  " 

The  girl  had  to  answer,  the  question  was 
asked  with  such  frank  trust.  "  Anne  Bruce." 

The  boy  repeated  the  name  mechanically,  and 
then  looked  at  the  work  he  had  done.  "  Whut 
you  want  to  raise  so  many  flowers  fer,  Anne? 
Whyn't  you  put  that  ground  in  corn  ?  " 

The  girl  reddened  in  spite  of  her  amusement. 
"  You  must  call  me  Miss  Anne  or  Miss  Bruce," 
she  said,  quietly. 

"  Miz  Anne,"  repeated  the  boy.  "  Who  ever 
heerd  o'  sech  a  thing?  "  He  would  have  laughed 
had  not  her  face  been  so  serious.  "  All  right," 
he  said,  placidly.  u  But  we  don't  call  no  woman 
4  Miz  '  whar  I  come  from  'ceptin'  they's  purty 
ole  or  is  married.  You  ain't  ole  enough,  /  know ; 
an'  you  ain't  married,  is  ye  ?  " 

Anne  flushed  slightly,  but  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  impudence  in  his  tone,  and  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  rebuke  his  childlike  curiosity. 
"  No,  I'm  not  married,"  she  said,  simply. 

But  the  boy  saw  something  was  wrong,  and 
with  a  look  of  sudden  ill-humor  rose  to  his  work. 
His  depression  was  momentary;  he  seemed  to 
have  the  light-hearted  irresponsibility  of  the  in 
sane.  Already  he  was  humming  to  himself  in  a 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

mournful  minor;  it  was  something  about  "  wild 
roses*1;  the  intervals  were  strange  to  her  ear, 
and  the  tune  seemed  to  move  through  at  least 
three  keys.  Anne  remembered  the  folk  songs 
that  Colton  said  the  mountaineers  still  sang: 

"  To  jump  in  the  river  and  drown  " — 

that  was  the  last  sorrowful  line;  and  tken  he 
veered  to  something  lively,  singing  words  that 
she  could  barely  hear  : 

"  Chickens  a-crowin'  on  Sourwood  Mountain, 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdy-dee! 
Git  yo*  dogs  an*  we'll  go  him  tin', 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdy-dee ! " 

It  had  the  darky's  rhythm  and  the  darky's  way 
of  dropping  into  the  minor  on  the  third  line, 
while  the  swing  of  the  last  was  like  the  far-away 
winding  of  a  horn,  and  it  was  to  ring  in  her  ears 
for  years  to  come.  He  was  changing  now,  and 
she  smiled.  Colton  had  sung  that  to  her;  he 
called  it  "  The  Dying  Injunction  of  Johnnie 

Buck." 

"  Oh,  Johnnie  Buck  is  dead, 

An*  the  last  words  he  said 
Was,  never  let  yo*  woman  have  her  way." 

There  was  but  one  verse,  and  he  sang  it  over 
and  over  while  she  watched  him,  trying  to  real 
ize,  to  understand,  what  Colton  said;  that  in  this 

49 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

age,  this  day,  this  hour ;  in  her  own  land,  her  own 
State,  and  within  the  two  days'  gallop  of  a  thor 
oughbred  of  her  own  home,  were  people  living 
like  the  pioneers,  singing  folk-songs  centuries 
old,  talking  the  speech  of  Chaucer,  and  loving, 
hating,  fighting,  and  dying  like  the  clans  of  Scot 
land.  It  was  very  strange  and  interesting,  and 
for  no  reason  she  sighed  deeply.  The  town  clock 
was  striking  noon. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  dinner  now,"  she  said, 
"  and  come  back  this  afternoon." 

"  This  whut?  "  The  mountaineer's  day  has 
no  afternoon. 

"  This  evening." 

"  Aw !  "  Again  the  boy  laughed  frankly. 
Just  then  the  Governor  was  passing  into  the 
Mansion.  "  Who  is  that  ole  feller?  " 

"  You  mustn't  say  *  old  fellow.'  You  must 
say  '  old  gentleman.'  That's  my  father." 

"Well,  I  be  durned!  Can  he  pardin  me 
out?" 

"  Yes,  he  could,  if  there  were  a  good  reason." 

The  convict  was  looking  intently  at  the  Gov 
ernor  as  he  passed  through  the  door.  His  face 
had  grown  sullen  and  there  was  a  new  fire  in  his 
eyes. 

"  An'  I  never  knowed  it  till  yestiddy,"  he  mut 
tered;  "  an'  my  time  'most  done.  Hit  ain't 
right,"  he  said,  fiercely. 

50 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

For  the  moment  he  forgot  the  girl,  and  he 
wheeled  quickly  to  her  with  a  sudden  fear  that 
he  had  uncovered  himself  to  a  possible  enemy, 
and  bent  his  sharp  black  eyes  full  on  her.  She 
was  puzzled  by  the  change  in  his  face,  but  she 
gave  him  a  kindly  nod  and  turned  toward  the 
house. 

Boone  Stallard  was  passing  the  gate,  as  he  al 
ways  did  at  that  hour,  going  to  his  dinner.  The 
young  trusty  called  him  by  his  first  name  and 
Stallard  stopped,  but  the  two  did  not  shake 
hands.  The  mountaineer  spoke  to  Anne  without 
raising  his  hat. 


VI 

I7V3R  the  time,  peace  down  in  the  mountains 
J/  took  away  the  cause  of  war  between  Mar 
shall  and  Stallard  at  the  capital,  but  hardly  a 
question  came  up  in  the  House  but  the  tendency 
was  plain  in  both  men  to  take  opposing  sides; 
and  always  the  personal  note  of  enmity  was 
frankly  dominant.  In  consequence,  Anne  looked 
forward  with  some  anxiety  to  the  night  of  her 
dinner — the  dinner  to  which  Stallard  had  prom 
ised  to  come.  He  was  deeply  mortified,  Colton 
told  her,  over  his  failure  to  answer  her  note ;  so 
to  show  that  she  forgave  him,  she  had  asked  him 
again.  She  feared  nothing  openly  disagreeable ; 
Marshall  would  not  suffer  himself,  under  her 
roof,  to  be  drawn  into  that :  still,  the  mountain 
eer's  blunt  hostility  might  keep  her  continually  on 
guard  and  put  the  table  under  unpleasant  re 
straint  ;  for  the  feeling  between  the  two  men  was 
public  talk,  as  her  interest  in  the  mountaineer 
was  getting  to  be. 

To  Marshall,  then,  she  gave  the  seat  of  honor. 
Colton  sat  on  her  left.  Stallard  she  placed  at 
her  father's  right,  and  next  Katherine  Craig. 

52 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

A  rather  talkative  newspaper  man,  a  meteor 
from  the  North  whom  Colton  had  caught  while 
he  was  still  blazing,  and  who,  for  Colton's  sake, 
was  there,  sat  midway.  Anne  could  not  reckon 
as  to  him,  being  an  unknown  quantity,  and  she 
little  dreamed  that  he  was  to  be  the  dangerous 
link  of  communication  which  she  found  necessary 
to  sever  with  a  tactful  stroke.  He  was  making 
a  trip  through  the  South  to  get  a  comprehensive 
grasp  of  the  negro  question;  and,  incidentally, 
to  turn  a  search-light  on  the  origin  and  condition 
of  the  poor  whites.  That  was,  in  effect,  what  she 
heard  him  tell  the  Episcopal  minister  as  they 
were  rising  to  go  out  to  dinner.  Now  the  clergy 
man,  who  sat  opposite  him,  was  resuming  the 
subject. 

"  How  long  shall  you  stay?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  about  six  weeks,  I  suppose,"  was  the 
careless  answer. 

"  Stay  as  long  as  I  have,"  said  the  minister, 
with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  and  perhaps  you  won't 
write  anything." 

The  journalist  realized  that  he  was  talking  to 
a  Northern  man,  and  his  face  lighted  up. 

"  Why,  how  long  have  you  been  South?  " 

"  Six  years,"  was  the  dry  answer,  and  Anne 
smiled. 

Throughout  the  meal  she  watched  the  moun 
taineer  closely.  His  face  was  placid  and  grave, 

S3 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

but  his  eyes  were  busy.  Nothing  escaped  them. 
He  did  nothing  that  he  did  not  see  done  first; 
and  she  saw  him  waiting  more  than  once  to  learn 
what  it  was  proper  to  do.  It  was  plain  that  he 
would  get'  along;  indeed,  he  had  got  along. 
That  she  noticed  when  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room  ;  and  now  Colton,  with  the  kindliest  humor, 
was  calling  her  attention  to  the  fact,  while  Mar 
shall  was  engaged  with  his  right-hand  neighbor. 
"  IVe  been  tempering  the  cyclone  to  the  shorn 
lamb  of  conventionality,"  he  said.  "  IVe  got 
him  down  out  of  the  clouds  now,  and  he  roars 
gently.  IVe  got  his  hair  cut;  and  did  you  ob 
serve  his  patent-leathers?  I  tied  that  four-in- 
hand.  He  had  a  ready-made  bow  of  yellow  satin. 
I'll  get  him  out  of  that  Prince  Albert  pretty 


soon." 


"  He  surely  has  improved.  How  did  you 
manage  it  so  quickly?  " 

The  question  was  mechanical.  She  knew  Col- 
ton  as  one  of  the  few  who  can  give  advice  with 
out  offence  to  anybody;  but  she  was  watching 
the  Northern  journalist,  who  was  vigorously 
haranguing  Reynolds  of  the  geological  corps. 
Several  times  she  saw  his  lips  frame  the  word 
"  mountaineer." 

"  Oh,  he  was  easy  work.  He  went  to  the  uni 
versity  at  Lexington.  But  he's  been  down  in  the 
mountains  so  long  since  then  that  he  has  lapsed 

54 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

into  original  sin.  That's  easy,  Reynolds  says, 
down  there.'7 

Marshall  turned  just  then,  and  Colton  took 
up  the  pink  maiden  on  his  left.  Stallard  was  not 
talking  much.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  shyly 
listening  to  Katherine,  who  was  doing  her  best 
to  engage  him,  or  to  the  Governor;  but  now  and 
then  he  would  turn  his  eyes  toward  Anne,  and 
she  was  pleased.  Once  she  gave  him  a  friendly 
smile  and,  from  his  sudden  color,  she  knew  that 
his  looking  had  been  unconscious,  and  that,  too, 
pleased  her.  The  talking  was  so  spirited  all 
round  the  table  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  pos 
sible  occasion  for  the  two  men  to  come  into  con 
tact.  She  began  to  wonder  how  she  could  have 
feared  it :  it  was  hardly  possible  at  the  table,  and 
only  by  accident  could  they  clash  in  the  drawing- 
room;  and  then  she  was  quite  sure  that  Colton 
had  warned  the  mountaineer  on  this  point  as  well. 
It  was  just  while  she  was  giving  a  long  sigh  of 
relief  that  one  of  those  curious  lulls  came  that 
are  said  to  silence  a  table  of  people  either  twenty 
minutes  before  or  twenty  minutes  after  the  clock 
strikes  an  hour.  Anne  gave  a  low,  nervous  laugh 
that  made  Colton  turn  quickly  toward  her.  The 
meteor  was  sputtering  through  the  sudden  quiet. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  emphasis.  "  The  ac 
cepted  theory  of  the  origin  of  the  mountaineer, 
particularly  of  the  Kentucky  mountaineer,  is  that 

55 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

he  is  the  descendant — "  He  had  got  that  far 
when  he  became  conscious  of  the  intense  silence, 
that  everybody  was  listening,  and  that  Stallard's 
calm  eyes  were  on  him.  Anne  was  trembling 
when,  to  her  relief,  the  mountaineer  smiled.  He 
had  learned  a  great  deal.  "  —  of  exported 
paupers  and  convicts,  indents,  and  *  pore  white 
trash/  "  he  said,  quietly  and  quite  impersonally. 
"  I  don't  wonder  that  the  theory  has  got  abroad, 
because  so  little  is  known  of  the  mountaineer  and 

the  effect  of  his  environment,  but  I  think " 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Reynolds,  opposite,  who 
was  sunbrowned  and  wore  spectacles.  "  That  is 
a  very  foolish  theory.  Some  of  them  are  the 
descendants  of  those  people,  of  course.  There 
are  more  of  them  in  the  mountains  than  in  the 
blue-grass,  naturally;  but  the  chief  differences  be 
tween  them  and  us  come  from  the  fact  that  they 
have  been  shut  off  from  the  world  absolutely  for 
more  than  a  hundred  years.  Take  out  the  cav 
alier  element,  and,  in  rank  and  file,  we  were 
originally  the  same  people.  Until  a  man  has 
lived  a  year  at  a  time  in  the  mountains  he  doesn't 
know  what  a  thin  veneer  civilization  is.  It  goes 
on  and  off  like  a  glove,  especially  off.  Put  twenty 
average  blue-grass  families  down  in  the  moun 
tains  half  a  dozen  miles  from  one  another,  take 
away  their  books,  keep  them  there,  with  no 
schools  and  no  churches,  for  a  hundred  years, 

56 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

and  they  will  be  as  ignorant  and  lawless  as  the 
mountaineer  " — with  a  nod  of  "  saving  your 
presence"  to  Stallard  —  "and,  with  similar 
causes,  fighting  one  another  just  the  same." 

It  was  a  bold  speech,  but  nobody  there  had  the 
better  right  to  make  it,  for  none  there  was  of 
better  blood.  The  pure  gratitude  in  Stallard's 
face  was  pathetic.  Marshall  had  grown  grave, 
and  Anne  saw  a  paleness  about  his  lips. 

"  You  mustn't  say  a  word,"  she  said,  seriously, 
but  she  spoke  too  late. 

"  Would  we  be  assassinating  one  another 
from  ambush,  too?"  he  asked,  with  his  lids 
lowered  and  quietly,  but  in  a  way  that  made 
Stallard  lay  down  his  fork,  drop  his  hands  into 
his  lap,  and  wait. 

A  look  from  Anne  stopped  Reynolds's  answer. 
<4  Vou  mustn't  go  any  further  now,"  she  said, 
laughingly,  "  or  I'll  have  to  take  part;  and  I 
don't  know  whose  part  I  should  take.  My  great- 
great-£ra*/-grandmother  lived  in  a  log  cabin — 
didn't  she,  papa? — and  did  her  own  cooking. 
They  went  back  into  the  mountains  for  a  while, 
when  game  got  scarce  in  the  blue-grass.  Sup 
pose  they  had  stayed.  I  might  be  a  mountaineer 
myself,  and  be  in  a  feud.  Dear  me,  somebody 
might  be  calling  me  *  pore  white  trash !  '  " 

The  light  manner  of  the  girl  was  serious 
enough  to  comfort  Stallard  unspeakably.  It 
57 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

held  Marshall  back  with  a  humor  that  had  no 
sting  for  him.  Reynolds  was  smiling;  Colton, 
dissolved  in  quiet  wonder. 

The  meteor,  after  flickering  once  or  twice  like 
a  dying  tallow  dip,  had  encountered  a  dangerous 
light  in  Stallard's  eye  and  had  quite  gone  out. 
The  storm-cloud  was  gone,  and  the  men  were 
left  to  their  cigars.  Stallard  did  not  smoke,  and 
the  Governor  took  him  to  the  library,  across  the 
hall.  Two  State  senators  had  Marshall  between 
them  over  an  axe  they  wanted  the  lower  house 
to  grind.  The  journalist  and  the  clergyman  had 
drawn  together,  and  Reynolds  had  Colton  and 
two  others  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  was  telling 
a  story.  Anne  sat  near  the  folding-doors,  which 
were  slightly  ajar,  and,  as  the  ladies  opposite 
were  on  some  domestic  theme  and  taking  in  her 
presence  only  now  and  then  with  a  glance,  she 
could  not  help  hearing;  and  after  the  first  words 
she  frankly  listened. 

"  Maybe  you  can  use  it,  Colton,"  Reynolds 
was  saying.  '  You  remember  I  was  captain  of 
the  football  club  at  the  university?  Well,  one 
day,  at  the  beginning  of  the  season,  one  of  the 
fellows  got  hurt,  and  I  had  to  take  a  green  sub 
stitute.  There  were  only  some  Bible  students 
out  there  looking  on — the  fellows,  you  know, 
who  dye  their  linen  dusters  for  overcoats  in  win-  ,. 
ter — and  one  of  them  stepped  out.  '  I  don't 

58 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

know  the  game,  pardner,'  he  said,  '  but  I  reckon 
I  can  tote  that  ball  wherever  you  wants  me.'  It 
was  funny  to  hear  him  drawl  it  out ;  but  he  was 
a  big  chap,  and  I  took  him.  The  ball  did  come 
to  him  presently,  and  he  got  it  off  the  ground. 

*  Whar'd  ye  say  take  it  ?  '  he  asked,  holding  it 
above  his  head,  while  two  little  fellows  on  the 
other  side  were  jumping  up  after  it  like  dogs  for 
a  piece  of  bread.     *  Run  for  the  goal !  '  I  yelled. 

*  Whut,  them  stakes  ?  '  he  drawled.     '  Yes,  you 
fool,  run ! '    He  gave  me  one  look  as  much  as  to 
say,  *  Well,  I'll  attend  to  you  presently  ' ;  and 
then  he  started,  with  the  ball  in  one  hand  and 
knocking  men  right  and  left  with  the  other,  just 
as  though  they  were  tenpins,  and  everybody  yell 
ing,  *  foul.'    He  never  stopped.     One  man  was 
on  his  back  and  two  were  swinging  to  his  waist, 
when  he  was  within  ten  feet  of  the  goal.     He 
thought  he  had  to  go  under  it,  and  he  staggered 
those  ten  feet  sidewise  and,  with  the  crowd  on 
him,  got  through.    *  Is  that  the  game,  pardner?  ' 
he  asked,  when  the  boys  let  him  up.     *  Well,  I 
reckon  I  can  do  that  all  day.    Hit's  purty  hard 
on  a  feller's  clothes,  though.'     And  we  could 
never  get  him  to  play  again.    He  said  he  hadn't 
the  time,  but  I  believe  it  was  his  clothes  (we 
didn't  have  football  suits  in  those  days).     He 
came  around  to  see  me  about  calling  him  a  fool, 
and  I  wasn't  long  apologizing,  either.     Well, 

59 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

that  fellow  came  over  into  the  College  of  Arts 
and  turned  out  a  remarkable  orator.  He  ac 
tually  made  his  speech  at  Commencement  from 
a  slip  of  notes  in  his  hand." 

Colton  was  nodding  his  head.  "  I  remem 
ber/'  he  said. 

"  Well,  Colton,  that  fellow  was  your  cyclone. 
That  was  why  I  stood  up  for  him.'7 

Anne  heard  Colton's  exclamation  of  surprise, 
and  then  no  more ;  but  she  had  been  busy  with 
memories,  too,  and  a  mystery  was  clearing.  Once 
more  it  was  Marshall's  Commencement  day. 
Again  she  felt  the  stifling  heat  and  saw  the  por 
tico,  her  parasol  on  the  flight  of  steps,  and  the 
boy  against  one  of  the  big  pillars,  with  his  fixed 
stare  and  his  head  of  unruly  black  hair.  The  inci 
dent  came  vividly  back  while  Reynolds  was  tell 
ing  the  story,  and  she  looked  at  Stallard  closely 
when  the  men  came  back  into  the  drawing-room. 
It  was  quite  possible;  she  would  learn  if  he  were 
the  same.  It  was  an  odd  cast  of  fate  if  he  were. 

Marshall  went  at  once  to  the  piano  to  select 
a  song  for  her.  He  could  both  sing  and  play, 
but  he  would  rarely  do  either.  Music  and  art, 
for  men,  at  least,  are  yet  in  serious  disfavor 
through  the  South,  and  it  is  not  wise  for  a  man, 
with  the  serious  purpose  of  law  or  politics  be 
fore  him,  to  show  facility  in  light  accomplish 
ments.  When  Anne  sang,  Stallard's  eyes  never 

60 


Marshall  went  at  once  to  the  piano* 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

left  her  face.  He  was  leaning  against  a  column 
at  the  entrance  to  the  dining-room,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  his  shoulders  fallen  forward, 
his  head  sunk  back,  his  lips  slightly  apart — and 
once  more  Anne  saw  the  young  rustic  against  the 
pillar,  and  met  his  curious  look  again.  Only, 
when  she  smiled  now,  there  was  in  his  eyes  some 
thing  new,  personal,  eager,  softened,  and,  on  a 
sudden,  a  surprised  flash  of  such  unreckoning 
intensity  that  she  faltered  in  her  song,  and  did 
not  look  toward  him  again.  The  guests  rose 
to  go  soon  after  she  was  done,  but  Stallard  stood 
where  he  was;  and  when  Colton  called  him  by 
name  and  he  turned,  his  eyes  looked  as  though 
he  had  been  suddenly  awakened  from  sleep.  The 
two  passed  Marshall  on  their  way  to  Anne,  but 
Stallard  seemed  not  even  to  see  him.  He  was 
still  looking  at  Anne,  who  gave  him  a  friendly, 
half-frightened  smile,  and  passed  him  on  with 
Colton.  Marshall  stayed  behind.  The  moun 
taineer  could  hardly  find  his  hat  in  the  hallway 
and,  as  he  started  out,  he  turned  again  as  though 
he  would  go  back  into  the  parlor.  He  seemed 
dazed. 

"  I  believe "  he  said,  hesitatingly,  and  Col 
ton,  wondering  what  the  matter  was  and  fearing 
that  he  might  do  some  breach  of  propriety,  took 
him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out  the  door  and  into 
the  starlight. 

61 


VII 

THE  next  week  Stallard  disappeared  alto 
gether.  Marshall,  too,  was  rarely  in  evi 
dence,  through  a  fixed  principle  of  his.  One  of 
Anne's  suitors  had  come  in  from  another  part 
of  the  State,  and  Marshall,  after  showing  the 
stranger  every  possible  courtesy,  as  was  his  cus 
tom  with  his  rivals,  hospitably  left  the  field. 
After  the  following  Sunday,  the  stranger  was 
gone  the  way  of  so  many  strangers  before  him, 
and  Marshall  smiled  and  resumed  his  visits  to 
the  Mansion.  But  Stallard  stayed  on  in  hiding. 
He  came  once  to  pay  his  dinner  call,  but  that  was 
plainly  Colton's  doing;  several  others  were  there, 
and  Anne  said  nothing  to  the  mountaineer  alone. 
She  had  asked  him  to  come  again,  and  he  had 
not  come.  Colton  said  he  was  hard  at  work, 
Katherine  thought  him  shy,  and  Anne  regretted 
that  she  had  not  been  more  friendly. 

Several  times  the  young  trusty  had  been  over 
to  hoe  in  the  garden.  Anne  made  many  efforts 
to  find  his  conscience,  to  implant  therein  a  seed 
of  regeneration,  but  she  soon  gave  him  up  as 
hopeless.  She  was  astonished  by  his  knowledge 

62 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

of  the  Scriptures — for  sometimes  the  mountain 
eer  knows  the  great  book  from  cover  to  cover — 
and  by  the  distant  application  of  them  to  his  per 
sonal  life.  He  had  "  heerd  all  that  afore,"  he 
said,  with  some  superiority.  "  He  had  wrastled 
with  the  Sperit,  an'  he  couldn't '  come  through.' 
He  was  jus'  a-snortin'  fer  conviction,  he  was." 
Once  she  asked  him  why  they  did  not  settle  their 
quarrels  down  in  the  mountains  with  their  fists 
instead  of  with  knives  and  pistols — as  though 
her  own  people  did  that 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  S'posin'  a  feller  does 
somep'n  to  you.  You  go  fer  him  fist  an'  skull, 
gougin'  and  bitin'.  You  gits  whooped !  "  he  con 
cluded,  triumphantly. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  that  isn't  a  disgrace." 

"  All  right.  Then  s'posin',  the  next  time  he 
sees  ye,  he  crows  over  ye.  What  you  goin'  to  do 
then?" 

The  problem,  aside  from  religion,  which  had 
to  be  laid  aside,  was  insoluble.  The  boy  was  an 
interesting  puzzle  to  her.  He  was  so  frank  a 
heathen.  His  wickedness  was  such  a  thing  of 
impulse  and  odd  reasoning.  His  curiosity  was  so 
absurdly  childlike,  so  removed  from  imperti 
nence.  He  never  made  a  word  of  thanks  for  the 
little  things  she  gave  him,  and  yet  she  saw  that 
he  was  not  unappreciative.  He  repressed  his 
frankness  of  speech  a  good  deal,  and  he  showed 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

his  consideration  in  other  little  ways.  A  quicker 
native  intelligence  she  had  never  seen.  His  na 
ture  was  alert,  f oxlike,  elusive ;  and  his  sense  of 
humor  was  a  strange  thing.  He  was  constantly 
picking  up  little  differences  between  her  life  and 
speech  and  his  at  home.  He  heard  somebody 
call  "  pants  "  trousers,  for  instance,  and  over 
that  he  had  a  fit  of  derisive  laughter.  Indeed, 
what  amused  her  most  was  his  perfect  com 
placence  with  his  way  of  life  and  thinking;  his 
unquestioning  faith  that  his  way  was  the  right 
way,  and  any  other  way  justly  a  matter  of  sur 
prise,  comment  and  ridicule.  It  suggested  to 
Anne  parallelisms  elsewhere,  as  circles  widen, 
and  helped  her  own  breadth  of  view  in  judging 
him.  What  the  boy  had  done  to  be  in  prison  she 
did  not  know.  She  had  not  thought  to  ask  her 
father;  she  could  not  ask  the  boy  the  first  morn 
ing  he  came;  and,  after  that,  she  thought  she 
would  rather  not  know,  for  his  own  sake  and 
for  the  sake  of  his  kinsman,  Boone. 

Meanwhile  the  days  lengthened,  and  Anne 
took  long  drives  in  the  slow  twilights,  sometimes 
with  Marshall,  but  usually  with  Katherine 
Craig;  and  the  constant  cry  of  the  mountaineer's 
nature  for  open  air  led  Boone  Stallard  on  long 
walks  into  the  fields  to  keep  his  blood  running 
and  his  brain  clear.  Often  Anne,  with  Marshall 
or  with  Katherine,  met  the  mountaineer  miles 


THE    KEOTUCKIANS 

from  town,  striding  the  road  with  his  hat  off; 
and  sometimes,  driving  alone,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  big  frame  moving  across  Arnold's 
Wold  in  the  late  dusk.  That  was  as  close  as  she 
ever  saw  him ;  for  resolutely  he  kept  his  distance 
from  her,  and  the  tractive  force  of  novelty  had 
its  effect  with  Anne.  She  wanted  to  see  the  man 
again  and  to  talk  with  him.  It  was  a  fact,  frank 
ly  confessed  to  Katherine — to  anybody  who 
would  not  have  misunderstood  her.  She  was 
curious  about  his  past,  his  purpose,  his  people. 
So  overtaking  Colton  with  the  mountaineer  one 
afternoon  on  the  edge  of  town,  she  and  Kather 
ine  took  them  both  into  the  carriage  and  drove 
down  the  river  and  out  through  the  Benson  Hills. 
It  was  like  crossing  the  border-line  of  her  life  and 
his  when  they  passed  a  little  cross-roads  store. 
Several  horses  were  hitched  to  the  fence  near  by. 
Several  men  were  whittling  on  the  high  stoop* 
More  were  pitching  horseshoes  up  the  dirt  road, 
and  at  the  blacksmith's  shop  beyond  three  stal 
wart  young  fellows  and  a  fat  old  farmer  were 
playing  marbles.  Stallard  smiled  as  though  the 
scene  were  familiar.  A  little  farther  on  was  a 
two-roomed  house,  half  of  which  was  built  of 
logs.  At  the  wood-pile  and  leaning  on  his  axe, 
was  a  tall,  gaunt  fellow,  with  a  sunburnt  blond 
beard,  his  trousers  in  his  boots,  and  the  brim  of 
his  slouched  hat  curved  over  his  forehead.  Far- 

65 


THE    KENTUCKIAN8 

ther  still,  a  mile  or  more,  they  came  upon  a  log 
cabin  with  a  grape-vine  over  the  door.  An  old 
woman,  with  a  basket  on  one  arm,  was  pushing 
through  the  rickety  gate.  She  turned  her  face 
toward  them  as  they  passed,  and  peered  as 
though  she  were  straining  her  eyes  through  dark 
ness. 

"  Howdy,  mother?  "  said  Stallard. 

The  old  woman  gave  some  quavering  answer, 
and  Stallard  looked  back  once.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  opened  his  lips,  and  the  kindness  of 
his  voice  touched  Anne. 

"  Some  people  down  in  these  hills  are  like 
your  people,  Stallard,"  said  Colton.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  they  floated  down  the  river,  or 
whether  it's  because  it's  just  hilly  down  here. 
They  don't  have  as  many  curious  words  as  you 
folks  have ;  they  don't  have  feuds ;  and  they  don't 
call  the  blue-grass  the  '  settlemints,'  and  us  blue- 
grass  people  *  furriners,'  but  otherwise  they  are 
pretty  much  the  same." 

Several  times  Katherine,  who  sat  with  Stallard 
on  the  rear  seat  of  the  old-fashioned  victoria, 
had  tried  to  draw  him  out;  and  now  Colton's 
purpose  apparently  was  to  start  the  mountaineer 
talking,  but  he  only  laughed  good-naturedly  at 
the  differentiating  characterization  that  Colton 
tossed  off,  and  settled  back  into  silence. 

"  It's  all  isolation,"  Colton  went  on;  "  that's 
66 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

what  Reynolds  was  going  to  say  the  other  night. 
Isolation  arrests  development,  crystallizes  char 
acter,  makes  a  people  deteriorate.  That's  his 
idea,  and  he  says  the  Kentucky  mountaineer  has 
been  the  most  isolated  of  all  the  Southern  moun 
taineers — of  whom,  by  the  way,  there  are  about 
three  millions,  with  a  territory  as  big  as  the 
German  Empire.  He  has  seen  fringed  hunting- 
shirts,  moccasins,  and  coon-skin  caps  in  the  moun 
tains  at  this  late  day.  He  swears  that  an  old 
mountaineer  once  told  him  about  the  discovery 
of  America  by  Columbus.  Reynolds  listened, 
solemn  as  an  owl.  The  old  chap  called  himself 
a  *  citizen,'  Reynolds  a  *  furriner,'  and  Columbus 
one  of  the  *  outlandish.'  He  was  a  sort  of  patri 
arch  in  his  district,  a  philosopher;  he  was  the 
man  who  delivered  the  facts  of  progress  to  the 
people  about  him,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  anybody  as  young  as  Reynolds  might  know 
about  Columbus.  The  old  fellow  talked  about 
the  Mexican  war  as  though  it  had  been  over 
about  ten  years,  and  when  he  got  down  to  the 
Secession,  well,  he  actually  hitched  his  chair  up 
to  Reynolds's  and  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whis 
per.  *  Some  folks  had  other  idees,'  he  said,  c  but 
hit  was  his  pussonal  opinion  that  niggahs  was 
the  cause  of  the  war.'  Think  of  it !  And  when 
Reynolds  left,  the  old  man  followed  him  out  to 
the  fence:  '  Stranger,'  he  said,  *  I'd  ruther  you 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

wouldn't  say  nothin'  about  what  I  been  tellin* 
ye/  He  was  one  of  the  few  rebel  sympathizers 
in  that  neighborhood,  and  he  feared  violence  at 
that  late  day  for  talking  too  freely  about  the  war. 
Reynolds  claims  that  the  mountaineers  were 
loyal  to  the  Union  in  '61  because  they  hadn't  got 
over  the  fight  of  1776,  and  that  these  feuds  are 
the  spent  force  of  the  late  war.  There  were 
more  slave-holders  among  the  Kentucky  moun 
taineers  ;  for  that  reason,  they  were  more  evenly 
divided  among  themselves ;  the  war  issue  became 
a  personal  one,  and  isolation  kept  them  fighting. 
So  you  have  to  go  back  to  the  Revolution  to 
understand  the  mountaineer,  and  you  must  give 
him  a  lonely  century  in  which  to  deteriorate  be 
fore  you  can  judge  him  fairly.  Consider  his 
isolation,  says  Reynolds,  and  the  wonder  is  not 
that  he  is  so  bad,  but  that  he  isn't  worse." 

Colton  could  imitate  the  dialect  well,  and 
Anne  listened  with  amused  interest.  Stallard 
laughed  and  nodded  affirmatively,  but  all  the 
while  his  eyes  were  on  the  passing  fields.  They 
had  turned  off  from  the  river  now  and  through 
the  hills  into  Anne's  land — the  blue-grass.  Back 
toward  the  town  was  a  soft  haze ;  before  them, 
all  was  clear  and  brilliant.  They  had  left  the  lo 
cust  blossoms  dropping  meaninglessly  into  the 
streets.  Here  in  the  fields,  Nature  was  making 
ready  for  the  days  when  she  can  sit  with  folded 
68 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

hands,  brooding  and  happy  over  work  that  is  all 
but  done.  The  blue-grass  was  purpling  into  soft 
seas,  that  rocked  as  proudly  in  the  wind  as  the 
heading  wheat  and  barley  and  the  young  green 
oats,  whose  silver-gray  would  be  the  last  passing 
sheen  of  the  summer's  glory.  Already  the  rifled 
clover  blossoms  were  drooping  their  heads  as 
the  gray  spikes  of  timothy  shot  exultantly  above 
them.  Now  and  then,  from  the  road-side,  came 
the  low,  sweet,  aimless  plaint  of  a  little  brown 
songster,  whose  name  Anne  had  never  learned. 
Two  kingbirds  were  chasing  a  crow  toward  a 
woodland.  Out  in  the  meadow,  a  starling  was 
poised  over  his  nesting  mate,  balancing  against 
the  breeze,  and  swearing  fealty  for  one  happy 
month  by  the  crimson  on  his  wings.  Quail  were 
calling  from  the  wheat,  and  larks  were  wheeling 
and  singing  everywhere.  Sturdy  farm-houses  of 
plain  brick  stood  out  here  and  there  from  the 
sunlit  fields,  and  now  and  then  an  avenue  of  lo 
custs  gave  sight  of  a  portico  with  great  pillars 
running  two  stories  high.  It  was  a  scene  of  rich 
peace  and  plenty,  and  Stallard's  interest  was 
eager,  but  Anne  noticed  his  face  sadden.  She 
remembered  this  afterward,  as  she  recalled 
other  impressions  of  the  drive,  when  she  had  a 
key  to  the  meaning  of  them.  Once  only,  when 
one  of  the  mountaineer's  questions  to  Colton 
showed  how  well  he  knew  the  country,  could  she 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

ask  him  if  he  had  not  been  to  the  blue-grass  be 
fore. 

'You  went  to  the  university,  didn't  you?1' 
she  said. 

The  careless  query  seemed  almost  to  startle 
him.  He  turned  quickly  to  her  and,  for  the  first 
time,  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  simply,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  another  question  that  was  on  Anne's 
lips ;  but  his  look  now  brought  back  a  sharp  mem 
ory  of  his  face  on  the  night  of  the  dinner,  and 
made  her  shrink  from  the  question  before  Colton 
and  Katherine,  as  she  knew  she  would  shrink  if 
she  were  with  him  alone.  If  he  were  the  same, 
and  if,  as  she  suspected,  he  remembered  her,  why 
was  he  so  palpably  making  of  the  matter  such  a 
mystery  ? 

It  was  a  short,  swift  ride,  but  nobody  guessed 
the  significance  of  it  to  the  mountaineer.  Only 
Anne  noticed  that  when  they  turned  from  the 
gray  haze  settling  over  the  blue-grass  ahead  of 
them,  back  to  the  smoke  haze  over  the  town, 
Stallard  sank  into  a  moodier  silence  still;  and 
when  they  reached  the  darkening  hills,  some 
thing  in  his  face  assailed  her  once  more  with  an 
unaccountable  pity  for  him.  They  were  passing 
the  old  woman's  cabin  at  the  time,  and  Anne's 
eyes  followed  his  through  the  open  door,  where 
the  old  granny  was  bending  over  a  fire,  and  the 

70 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

light  showed  the  rude  table  set  for  the  rude  sup 
per,  and  other  hard  details  of  the  room.  To  her 
it  was  merely  a  passing  picture  etched  by  the  light 
against  a  dark  little  ravine,  but  had  she  known 
the  memories  it  brought  to  Stallard,  she  would 
have  understood  the  sudden  shadow  in  his  face. 
The  quick  throb  of  her  sympathy  then  made  her 
shake  off  straightway  what  she  chose  to  regard 
as  a  silly  fear;  and  when  they  stopped  at  the 
Mansion,  and  Colton  was  climbing  out,  she  said 
to  Stallard,  quite  frankly : 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  to  see  me.  I  want 
to  know  all  about  the  mountains  and  the  feuds — 
and  everything." 

Stallard  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  looked 
at  her  so  long  and  so  searchingly  that  she  began 
to  flush,  and  Katherine,  from  sheer  embarrass 
ment,  rose  quickly  to  take  Colton's  outstretched 
hand,  so  little  did  the  mountaineer  seem  at  that 
moment  to  be  aware  of  her  presence  or  to  care 
who  might  hear  what  he  said. 

"  I'll  tell  you  anything  on  earth  you  want  to 
know — some  day." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  made  Colton  start,  and 
brought  dead  silence  to  the  four. 

Marshall  was  coming  down  the  steps,  and  in 
stinctively  Anne  covered  her  confusion  with  a 
Icok  of  dismay  to  Katherine;  she  had  had  an  en 
gagement  with  Marshall;  she  was  getting  back 

71 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

too  late,  and  he  would  be  angry.  Seeing  him, 
Stallard,  who  had  stepped  to  the  pavement, 
turned  sharply  from  Anne,  who  was  waiting  for 
him  to  help  her  out,  and  held  his  eyes  on  Mar 
shall  until  the  latter  was  several  paces  down  the 
street.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  do,  and  it  mys 
tified  even  Colton :  but  it  was  merely  the  moun 
taineer  in  him  that  made  him  keep  his  face  with 
watchful  suspicion  on  his  enemy;  it  showed 
progress  in  the  hostility  between  the  two,  and  it 
was  partly  in  answer  to  the  half-contemptuous 
flash  that  Marshall  gave  Stallard,  as  he  coldly 
lifted  his  hat. 


VIII 

BUT  again  Stallard  did  not  come,  and  again 
Anne  forgave  him.  He  was  exceptional; 
he  was  busy ;  he  was  shy — and  he  was  not  shy ; 
there  were  a  thousand  things  in  addition  to  the 
one  that  was  important:  she  became  quite  sure 
that  he  was  avoiding  her  for  some  definite  reason, 
and  that  bothered  her  a  good  deal.  Once  she 
met  him  for  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  the  Capi 
tol  and,  with  intentional  lightness,  she  reminded 
him  of  his  broken  promise.  That  time  he  took 
her  words  with  a  seriousness  not  so  deadly ;  and, 
thereafter,  as  the  days  went  by,  her  fear  abated 
and  her  interest  grew. 

Just  now  she  was  sitting  on  the  old,  worn 
steps  of  the  ancient  Hannah  mansion.  The  blue- 
grass  was  rich  under  the  trees  around  her,  the 
birds  were  singing  as  though  love  were  going  to 
live  forever,  and  the  soft  air  was  like  some  com 
forting  human  presence.  As  she  rose  to  start 
home,  she  saw  Stallard  emerge  from  the  old 
wooden  bridge,  and  she  sat  down  again.  The 
session  was  doubtless  just  over  and  he  was  going 
for  a  walk.  He  passed  along  the  other  side  of 

73 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

the  street  without  seeing  her,  and  in  a  moment 
she  rose  again.  She  knew  her  motive  when  she 
hesitated  at  the  gate  and  turned  the  same  way, 
smiling  indulgently  at  herself  as  she  walked 
along,  and,  a  little  later,  smiling  at  chance,  which 
is  sometimes  genial,  when  she  saw  that  she  would 
meet  Stallard  where  one  road  turns  down  the 
river  and  another  winds  up  the  hill.  The  moun 
taineer  had  been  down  one  way ;  had  changed  his 
mind  and  was  coming  back.  She  stepped  from 
the  sidewalk  to  take  the  road  up  the  hill,  with  her 
face  turned  to  him  to  speak  and  expecting  him  to 
keep  his  course ;  but,  without  looking  up  and  not 
hearing  her  light  step,  he  turned,  too,  and  they 
met  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  Are  we  going  the  same  way?  "  she  asked, 
without  calling  him  by  name. 

Surprise  a  mountaineer  and  you  startle  him. 
It  is  an  inherited  trait  of  people  who  live  primi 
tive  lives  among  the  hills  and  must  be  on  the 
alert  for  an  enemy.  Instantly  Stallard's  hands 
were  withdrawn  from  his  pockets  and  a  watch 
ful  light  quickened  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  skeered  mel  " 

It  was  the  slip  of  surprise,  but  Colton  had 
made  even  vulgarisms  like  this  tolerable  for  her. 
Much  of  the  mountaineer's  speech  was  simply 
obsolete  elsewhere,  he  had  explained.  The 
mountaineer  clung  to  old  customs,  old  words, 
74 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

old  pronunciations,  because  new  ones  had  never 
reached  him.  Certain  words  were  no  more  in 
correct  than  certain  customs  were  immoral.  In 
the  outer  world,  both  were  old-fashioned  merely. 

"  I'm  goin'  up  on  the  hill,"  he  said,  with  a 
gesture.  "  Are  you?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  simply,  for  in  the  fraction 
of  time  between  his  speech  and  hers  she  so  made 
up  her  mind. 

The  smooth-beaten  turnpike,  shining  like 
metal  ahead  of  them,  was  canopied  with  inter 
woven  branches  and  dappled  with  the  sunlight 
that  fell  through  them.  Hill,  tree,  and  the  sing 
ing  of  birds  were  on  the  right  hand,  and  the 
town  lay  under  its  haze  of  smoke  to  the  left.  It 
is  against  etiquette  in  the  mountains  for  a  young 
man  and  a  young  woman  to  stroll  unchaperoned 
in  the  woods — a  guardian  seems  necessary  only 
for  the  extremes  of  civilization — and  when 
Anne  suggested  turning  aside  to  look  for  flowers, 
the  mountaineer  hesitated  instinctively,  and  then, 
with  a  subtler  thought,  pushed  open  the  little 
gate  that  swung  from  the  body  of  an  oak  where 
she  had  stopped.  The  leaves  in  the  woods  were 
full,  and  the  sunlight  had  the  gold  of  autumn. 

Stallard  began  drawing  in  his  breath.      "  I 

always  come  up  here  when  I'm  homesick,"  he 

said.     "  It  makes  me  think  of  the  mountains — 

these  hills.    There's  a  mountain  tree  there,  and 

75 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

there,  and  there's  another,"  pointing  out  a  lynn, 
a  chestnut,  a  beech.  "  There  are  mountain  birds 
up  here,  too" — a  polyglot  chat  was  chuckling. 
"  Hear  that?  My  father  used  to  call  that  the 
'  plough-bird.'  It  goes  up  the  trunk  of  a  tree — 
Gee !  Haw ! — first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the 
left;  then  it  halts  and  clucks,  just  as  though  it 
wanted  a  steer  to  move  on.  When  it  gets  to 
the  branches,  it  drops  down  through  the  air  as 
though  it  were  hurt,  and  begins  all  over  again. 
And  this  air  " — drawing  it  into  his  great  chest 
— "  I  can  smell  the  roots  of  that  sassafras. 
There's  a  spring  up  here,  too.  It's  the  only  place 
where  I  can  get  a  good  drink  of  water." 

It  seemed  volubility,  so  long  a  speech,  and  it 
gave  Anne  a  surprise,  as  did  the  mountaineer's 
change  of  manner.  He  was  quite  easy  and  un 
conscious  now,  for  he  was  with  her  alone,  and  he 
was  in  the  woods,  where  he  was  at  home.  They 
were  going  up  a  path  through  a  tangled  thicket 
of  undergrowth.  A  little  stream  of  water  tinkled 
down  the  ravine  like  a  child  prattling  to  itself, 
and  tinkled  dreamily  on  through  dark  shadows 
into  the  sunlight.  A  bluebird  fluttered  across  it 
and,  high  above  them,  a  cardinal  drew  a  sinuous 
line  of  scarlet  through  the  green  gloom  and 
dropped  with  a  splutter  of  fire  into  a  cool  pool. 

"Well,"  laughed  Stallard,  "he's  in  my 
spring."  Somewhere  out  in  the  depths,  just 

76 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

then,  rose  cool,  flutelike  notes,  as  though  satyrs 
were  teaching  young  fauns  to  play  on  reeds. 
"  That's  another,"  said  Stallard,  delightedly. 
"  It's  the  first  time  I've  heard  him.  1  don't 
know  what  his  name  is." 

"  That's  a  wood-thrush,"  said  Anne,  stopping 
at  the  base  of  a  tree  and  sinking  down  on  a  root. 
She  had  gathered  only  a  few  flowers,  but  she  was 
tired. 

Stallard  stretched  his  long  length  in  the  grass 
below  her.  He  was  listening  to  the  wood-thrush 
and,  for  the  moment,  he  forgot  her,  or  he  had 
not  learned  that  she  let  little  pass  unseen;  for 
she  was  following  his  mood  as  it  became  thought 
ful,  reminiscent,  and  passed  finally  into  the  deep 
sadness  she  had  noted  on  the  drive.  It  was  the 
second  time  she  had  ever  seen  his  face  relax  from 
the  fixed  look  that  made  it  inscrutable  as  to  all 
else  except  some  dominant  purpose.  It  had  noth 
ing  of  the  dreaming  quality  of  Marshall's  pen 
sive  moods,  it  was  not  temperamental;  it  came 
from  some  definite,  tangible  source,  for  it  got 
bitter  and  hard  as  the  mood  held  him,  even  after 
the  bird's  gentle  fluting  ceased  a  moment  and 
again  came  like  an  echo  from  a  distant  glade. 

"  I  think  you  must  have  forgotten,  haven't 
you  ?  "  she  asked,  again  playfully,  to  divest  the 
question,  as  well  as  the  memory  that  it  must 
bring  to  both,  of  especial  significance. 

77 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

He  knew  what  she  meant.    "  Oh  no." 

"  Well,  then,  it's  a  good  time  to  begin.  I'm 
waiting."  She  was  pulling  a  stalk  of  blue-grass 
from  its  casing,  and  Stallard  turned  to  look  full 
at  her.  "  Why  do  you  want  to  know?  " 

It  was  well  that  she  was  doing  something,  or 
the  sudden  question  and  the  peculiar  tone  of  it 
would  have  taken  her  off  guard.  As  it  was, 
there  was  no  need  for  her  eyelashes  to  lift  until 
the  stalk  came  loose.  Then  she  raised  its  white 
base  to  her  lips  and  bit  it  off  quite  calmly. 

*  You  mustn't  ask  me  reasons ;  you  must  never 
ask  any  woman  reasons." 

It  was  her  first  parry,  and  she  saw  that  parry 
ing  with  him  was  going  to  be  difficult — his 
thrusts  were  so  out  of  rule.  He  was  looking  at 
her  in  a  blunt,  penetrating  way,  and  she  did  not 
lift  her  eyes  until  his  face  was  turned  again  to 
ward  the  faint  piping  of  the  thrush.  She  was 
not  ready  to  enter  that  question  with  herself, 
much  less  with  him. 

"  There  ain't  much  to  tell,"  he  was  saying, 
slowly.  "  I  live  at  the  head-waters  of  the  Cum 
berland,  where  the  mountains  are  purty  steep.  A 
neighbor  of  mine  fell  out  of  his  own  corn-field 
once  and  broke  his  neck.  I  went  to  school  in  a 
log-house  for  three  months  in  winter  for  three 
years,  working  and  studying  at  home  between 
times.  I  stopped  then  because  I  knew  more  than 

78 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

the  man  who  was  teaching  the  school.  I  made 
enough  money,  logging,  to  get  to  the  Bible  col 
lege  at  Lexington.  I  soon  found  out  I  wasn't 
called  to  be  a  preacher,  so  I  went  over  into  the 
College  of  Arts.  I  worked  in  the  professors' 
gardens;  I  did  my  own  cooking — anything— 
everything.  It  took  me  six  years,  but  I  got 
through.  I  went  back  home  and  I  taught  school 
and  I  studied  law.  Then  I  practised  at  my  coun 
try-seat  until  I  ran  for  the  Legislature.  That's 
all." 

That  was  all.  It  was  a  plain  record  of  plain 
facts,  and  Anne  knew  not  half  the  tale  of  hard 
ship  that  was  left  untold;  what  the  bitter,  patient 
fight  with  the  hard  conditions  of  his  birth  had 
been,  she  could  not  even  guess. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  purty  hard  row,"  he  added, 
simply,  as  though  he  were  following  her 
thoughts;  "  but  I'd  hoe  it  over  again  if  it  had  to 
be  done — for  one  reason,  anyhow — because  I 
can  do  more  for  my  people.  But  for  that  I  think, 
sometimes,  that  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  back  at  the 
beginning,  knowing  what  I  know  now,  and  had 
my  choice.  It  nearly  cost  me  my  religion,  and  it 
left  me  hung  midway  between  heaven  and  hell. 
Then  I've  learned  to  rebel  against  what  I  can't 
escape,  and  to  value  what  I  can  never  get." 

Stallard's  face  settled  back  into  reverie,  and 
there  was  a  long  silence — so  little  was  there  that 

79 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Anne  could  say.  She  was  curious  to  know  defi 
nitely  what  he  meant;  he  had  opened  the  way, 
whether  purposely  or  not,  for  her  to  ask,  but  she 
swerved  from  the  question,  and  asked  quite  an 
other  : 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  speak?  " 

Stallard  laughed.  "  I  never  learned.  It's 
natural,  what  there  is  of  it.  I  used  to  pray  in 
meetin's  when  I  was  a  boy.  Then  I  used  to  speak 
in  college.  I  never  could  write  a  speech — I  have 
to  talk  offhand.  That's  the  way  I  made  my 
valedictory."  He  laughed  again,  and  Anne  gave 
a  little  cry  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  remember;  that  was  you,  too." 

"  You  heard  of  that?  "  he  asked. 

"Who  didn't?"  was  her  answer,  and  Stal- 
lard's  face  shone. 

It  was  epoch-making  in  the  history  of  valedic 
tories  at  the  old  university — that  speech;  and 
the  pathos  of  it  was  unintentional  and  quite  un 
conscious.  A  big,  rough,  manly  countryman  had 
stepped  out  and  spoken  from  a  slip  of  notes  in 
his  hand.  He  was  not  sorry  to  go,  he  said, 
calmly.  He  had  worked  hard ;  he  had  asked  no 
favors,  incurred  no  obligation.  He  had  come  as 
rough  material ;  he  had  paid  for  the  privilege  of 
being  planed  down.  The  professors  were  paid 
to  plane  him  down.  He  had  tried  to  do  his  duty ; 
he  believed  they  had  done  theirs.  He  had  no 
80 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

personal  gratitude  to  express  to  anybody.  Nor 
had  he  any  pathetic  farewell  to  make  to  the  peo 
ple  of  the  town.  He  had  received  no  hospitality 
at  their  hands.  He  had  been  under  hardly  a 
single  roof  outside  the  campus.  He  knew  the 
face  of  hardly  a  woman  before  him.  He  had 
not  a  word  of  complaint  or  blame.  There  was 
no  reason  why  the  facts  of  his  college  life  should 
have  been  otherwise;  only  they  were  not.  The 
honor  of  the  valedictory  had  not  been  conferred 
on  him  by  his  classmates,  nor  by  the  professors, 
nor  by  the  people  of  the  town.  He  had  won  that, 
working  for  something  else.  He  knew  what  the 
valedictorian  was  expected  to  do.  He  had  been 
listening  to  valedictories  for  six  years.  He  could 
not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  his  predecessors,  but 
he  must  tell  what  was  the  truth  for  him;  and 
doing  that,  he  could  not  follow  them.  He  had 
his  little  memories,  associations,  friendships; 
they  were  few,  but  they  were  too  sacred  for  him 
to  bid  them  farewell  from  that  platform.  He 
had  come  an  alien — an  alien  he  was  going  away. 
And  he  was  glad  to  go — to  get  to  other  work. 
He  would  have  liked  to  give  them  high-wrought 
sentiment,  shining  metaphors;  to  wring  them 
with  the  agony  of  farewell  into  tears  even;  but 
he  had  to  tell  the  truth.  The  truth  was  what  he 
had  told,  and  more  to  tell  there  was  not.  So 
speaking,  he  sat  down. 

81 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

The  good  old  president  sat  through  it  bewil 
dered  and  pained.  The  professor  of  English 
looked  mad.  The  bluff  old  professor  of  Greek 
was  laughing  in  his  eyes  and  under  his  right 
hand,  which  covered  his  mouth.  The  dean  of 
the  Bible  college,  who  had  labored  to  save  Stal- 
lard's  soul  from  perdition  and  his  powers  for 
the  church,  was  openly  resentful  and  hurt ;  while 
the  little  man  who  helped  experiments  in  the 
laboratory  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  them  all. 
The  same  variety  of  results  was  perceptible  in 
the  house.  Only  the  editor  of  the  town  paper 
and  a  few  scattered  bold  spirits  broke  into  ap 
plause,  but  the  hall  hummed  just  the  same,  and 
the  speaker  was  the  man  of  the  day. 

"  Why,  I'm  not  a  patchin'  to  Sherd  Raines," 
Stallard  went  on — "  the  fellow  I  roomed  with  at 
college.  He  and  I  made  a  bargain  when  I  found 
out  I  wasn't  *  called.'  He  said  he'd  teach  the 
folks  at  home  religion  if  Fd  teach  'em  law." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do — what  do  you 
want  to  do  ?  " 

"  My  best,  always,  and  let  the  rest  go.  I'm 
a  fatalist,  I  reckon,  as  I  found  out  when  I  studied 
moral  philosophy.  I  take  what  comes,  if  it  is 
better  than  what  I  have.  I  have  my  wishes,  my 
hopes,  even  a  definite  ambition;  but  I  shan't 
risk  wrecking  my  life  on  it,  especially  when  what 
I  most  wish  for  I  knew  nothing  of  until  it  was 
82 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

too  late  to  acquire  it,  if  it  was  not  denied  me 
even  to  acquire  it,  when  I  was  born." 

He  pulled  down  the  brim  of  his  hat  and  looked 
away.  Some  instinct,  some  fear  held  her  back 
from  asking  just  what  he  meant,  and  she  watched 
him,  greatly  puzzled.  She  was  sure  now  that 
his  was  the  strongest  face  she  had  ever  seen ;  and 
his  history  was  as  plain  in  it  as  it  was  in  his 
words.  There  was  not  a  line  about  brow,  nose, 
mouth,  or  chin  that  was  not  chiselled  into  force 
of  character,  force  of  purpose.  If  there  was 
a  hint  of  contradiction  in  his  make-up,  it  was 
too  fine  for  her  vision,  keen  as  that  was.  It  was 
the  flawlessness  in  this  one  bulwark  of  strength 
that  had  drawn  her  and  made  her  fear.  She 
shrank  from  his  eyes  when  he  turned  all  at  once 
to  her;  there  was  a  light  in  them  that  was  not 
pleasant. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  could  guess  what  turned  me 
away  from  religion  to  law?  " 

He  pointed  to  the  yellow  dome  of  the  Capitol 
through  a  rift  in  the  trees,  and  she  knew  the  half 
of  what  he  meant — that  he  meant  Marshall. 
"  I  was  in  the  Bible  college,  and  the  first  Com 
mencement  I  ever  saw  was  his.  I  heard  his 
speech;  he  had  the  salutatory;  and  I  was  right 
under  him,  looking  up  into  his  face.  He  spoke 
over  my  head  and  never  saw  me.  It  was  Ken 
tucky  for  the  Kentuckians — his  speech — and  he 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

didn't  let  us  mountain  folks  in  at  all.  I  couldn't 
catch  his  eye  when  he  spoke  of  my  people  as  he 
did  down  there  in  the  House  the  other  day.  I 
knew  him  the  moment  he  got  up,  and  I  felt  just 
as  I  did  away  back  in  college.  It's  kind  o'  like 
a  storm  down  in  the  mountains  when  the  river  is 
high.  I  can  hear  the  wind  crashing  the  big  trees 
together  and  the  water  roar.  Lightning  just 
seems  to  flash  in  front  of  my  eyes,  and  I  can 
hear  the  thunder — I  tell  you,  I  can  hear  it. 
That's  the  way  it  is  below."  Stallard  moved 
his  hand  to  and  fro,  as  though  he  were  on  some 
peak  and  the  elements  were  raging  under  him. 
"  I'm  up  above  somehow" — tapping  his  fore 
head — "  an'  I  seem  to  have  the  strength  of  them 
all  right  here" — stretching  out  his  right  hand 
and  gripping  it — "  and  I  know  that  what  I  want 
to  do  then,  is  done.  I  know  that  now.  That's 
the  way  I  felt  after  his  speech  in  college  that 
day  when  the  band  crashed  in  from  the  gallery ; 
and  the  people  clapped  their  hands;  and  the 
ushers,  with  flowers  in  their  button-holes  and 
their  canes  wrapped  in  red  and  white  and  blue 
ribbons,  carried  him  up  notes  and  flowers;  and 
everybody  talked  and  smiled  and  nodded;  and  he 
sitting  upon  the  platform,  looking  red  and  proud 
and  happy.  I  must  have  been  a  great  fool,  for 
I  could  hardly  keep  from  getting  up  right  then 
and  shouting  out,  *  Brother,  you  ain't  the  only 

84 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

man  as  can  do  that ' ;  and,  thank  God,  the  time 
did  come  at  last" 

Stallard  stopped  short,  seeing  Anne's  pained 
and  helpless  face.  He  had  spoken  quietly,  but 
a  zigzag  streak  of  red  had  run  up  and  down 
each  side  of  his  face,  and  he  had  had  to  stop, 
now  and  then,  in  the  hesitancy  that  with  him 
meant  violent  emotion.  Anne  did  not  speak 
again  until  she  saw  that  he  had  himself  in  hand 
once  more. 

"  I  was  there  that  day,"  she  found  herself  say 
ing,  partly  that  he  might  not  think  she  was 
shifting  too  suddenly  away  from  the  theme. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  I  saw  you.  You 
dropped  your  umbrella,  and  you  waited  for  me 
to  pick  it  up — out  on  the  steps." 

He  spoke  calmly  and  as  though  with  a  quickly 
made  resolution,  and  the  girl  started  and  listened 
— surprised,  perplexed,  and  watching  with  the 
strength  of  her  soul  in  her  eyes. 

He  knew  then;  he  had  known  all  along; 
why —  And  then,  because  the  woman  in  her 
could  not  help  herself : 

"  Why  didn't  you  pick  it  up?  " 

He  did  not  answer.  If  he  even  heard  her,  he 
did  not  show  it ;  he  was  going  on  as  though  she 
were  asking  him  quite  another  question : 

"  Yes,  my  people  live  down  in  the  mountains; 
they  have  been  there  a  hundred  years.  My 

85 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

father  is  dead.  My  mother  is  at  home,  and  one 
married  sister,  whose  worthless  husband  was 
killed  in  the  feud.  My  sister  is  hardly  older 
than  you,  I  imagine,  and  yet  she  looks  old  enough 
to  be  your  mother.  She  has  four  children,  and 
she  has  worked  in  the  fields  " — Anne  shrank, 
and  he  saw — "  not  before  her  marriage,  mind 
you,  nor  since  her  husband's  death.  Let  me  see 
your  hand." 

She  held  it  out  with  the  sensation  of  obeying 
an  unspoken  command.  He  looked  at  it  intently 
— the  pink  nails,  long  white  fingers,  the  thread 
like  veins  in  the  round  wrist — but  he  did  not 
touch  it. 

"  Her's  is  like  mine,"  he  said,  turning  over  his 
broad  palm.  "  It's  hard  and  rough  and  sun 
burnt;  and  his  looks  as  soft  as  yours,  almost." 

"Haven't  you  any  brothers?"  she  asked, 
quickly,  to  turn  him  away  from  the  dangerous 
theme;  and  then  she  trembled  at  her  own  ques 
tion,  for  Stallard  started  visibly  and  did  not  re 
ply  at  once. 

"  Two,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  One  is  at  home — 
he  is  a  half-brother;  and  the  other" — his  tone 
got  harsh,  he  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet,  and  an 
swered  with  his  back  to  her:  "  He's  in  jail." 

"  Oh —  "  It  was  a  swift  cry  of  pain,  of 
apology,  and  it  was  enough. 

The  mountaineer  had  turned  full  upon  her. 
86 


He's  in  jail." 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

"  I  want  you  to  know — everything.  My  mother 
can't  write  her  own  name.  My  sister  barely  can. 
My  father  made  his  mark,  though  his  father's 
father  wrote  a  better  hand  than  I  do — an  old 
deed  shows  that.  My  mother  is  rough,  igno 
rant,  not  a  lady  as  you  would  say,  though  she 
is  the  best  woman  I  know  on  earth.  They 
are  all  mountaineers,  ignorant  mountaineers;  as 
Marshall  would  call  them,"  he  added,  bitterly, 
"  '  pore  white  trash.'  My  brother  is  in  jail,  as 
he  deserves  to  be." 

And  then  Stallard  went  on  to  tell  about  that 
brother;  how  he  had  done  all  he  could  to  keep 
him  from  the  evil  to  which,  as  a  boy  even,  he 
seemed  irresistibly  drawn.  How  he  had  kept 
aloof  from  the  feud  in  which  his  brother  had 
taken  an  active  part;  how  the  latter  had  sunk 
lower  and  lower  until  just  punishment  had  caught 
him  at  last.  He  himself  was  like  his  mother; 
his  brother  was  more  violent  and  had  less  re 
straint,  like  his  father;  that  was  the  difference 
between  the  two.  The  turn  of  a  hand  and  each 
might  have  had  the  other's  fate.  That  was  the 
way  of  chance. 

"  My  mother's  people  came  from  eastern  Vir 
ginia,  like  yours.  They  owned  slaves,  like  yours. 
Yours  came  here ;  mine  stayed  in  the  wilderness. 
You  kept  your  level ;  we  went  down ;  through  no 
virtue  of  yours,  no  fault  of  ours.  It  was  fate. 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

I  think  of  Marshall  and  you,  and  of  my  sister 
and  me.  You  were  born  so;  we  were  born  so. 
For  that  reason  what's  yours  without  the  asking 
is  not  ours  at  any  cost — not  now.  If  there's  a 
worse  blow  in  the  face  of  a  man  who  does  the 
best  with  what  comes  to  him  than  to  learn  the 
value  of  what  he  can  never  get,  I  hope  it  may 
be  spared  me.  To  be  willing  to  do  anything, 
deny  everything,  and  to  know  that  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  can  ever  wholly  count,  that — " 
Stallard  waved  his  hand,  through  sheer  inability 
to  go  on.  Neither  knew  the  full  and  personal 
significance  of  what  he  said,  but  through  it  all 
the  girl  sat  pained  and  mute,  touched  too  deep 
down  for  tears.  She  kept  silent,  even  when  they 
rose  and  went  down  the  path  again,  though  Stal 
lard,  with  unsuspected  delicacy,  turned  his  talk 
again  to  the  birds  and  trees.  Only  when  he 
reached  the  gate  at  the  oak  did  he  strike  the 
chord  again. 

11 1  didn't  pick  it  up,"  he  said,  "  because  I 
didn't  even  see  it  until  you  started  down  for  it 
yourself.  I  was  looking  at  you.  I  had  fol 
lowed  you  but  of  the  hall  to  see  you  again.  And 
no  day  has  passed  since,  no  hour  hardly,  that  I 
have  not  seen  you  looking  at  me  with  a  smile, 
just  as  you  looked  then.  It  is  not  so  strange. 
You  want  to  see  the  best  in  the  world,  know  the 
best,  be  the  best.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 

88 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

easy,  then,  for  you  to  remember  your  first  vision 
of  what  you  realized  was  the  best?  Especially 
when,  thereafter,  you  are  shut  off  for  years  from 
all  that  is  best  ?  I  couldn't  have  forgotten  you, 
if  I  had  tried.  Sometimes  I  have  tried.  But 
for  you,  after  all,  I  might  not  have  gone  on.  I 
might  be  living  in  a  log  cabin  in  the  mountains, 
and  tied  there,  with  a  wife  and  children,  forever 
— and  it  might  be  the  better  for  me  if  I  were. 
But  you  helped  open  to  me  the  world  against 
which  I  am  still  knocking  for  entrance — you  and 
he — see  what  I  owe  you — yes,  and  him,  too. 
And  you  are  helping  open  it  now — the  same 
world  which,  I  am  afraid,  is  barred  me  as  heaven 
is,  for,  without  cowardice  or  disloyalty,  I  can 
never  escape  my  own.  I  didn't  know  you  at 
first — "  He  stopped,  holding  her  eyes  with  his, 
so  that,  in  the  moment  of  silence,  she  felt  weak 
and  afraid  and  was  glad  when  he  went  on. 
"  You  are  not  as  lovely  as  I  thought  you  were" 
— she  could  not  smile  even  to  herself  at  his  hon 
esty — "  and  no  wonder.  Your  face  has  always 
been  the  face  of  something  unearthly  to  me,  and 
now  I  see  the  human.  I  didn't  know  you  until 
you  smiled  at  me  the  other  night,  when  you  were 
singing,  and  I  never  quite  know  you  as  the  same, 
unless  you  look  as  you  looked  then — as  you  look 
now,"  he  added,  for  Anne  was  smiling  faintly. 
Stallard's  voice  was  so  gentle  and  kind,  and  it 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

was  all  so  strange.  He  never  dreamed  that  she 
could  doubt  a  scintilla  of  what  he  said;  nor  did 
she,  strange  as  it  all  was. 

Stallard  had  opened  the  gate  and,  mountain- 
eerlike,  had  gone  through  first  and  was  holding 
it  open  for  her.  As  she  passed  through  she 
paused,  lifting  her  eyes  suddenly  to  his. 

"  I  saw  you  that  day — I  remember,  too." 
The  words  rose  impulsively  to  her  half-open  lips, 
but  some  vague  dread  held  them  back. 

The  sun  was  cutting  like  a  great  red  scimitar 
down  through  a  shadowed  hill  in  the  west.  Ar 
nold's  Wold  was  already  in  dusk.  A  cloud  of 
smoke  was  rising  above  the  prison,  and  the  Cath 
olic  cross  rose  whitely  through  it,  as  though 
swung  down  from  above.  There  was  still  a 
purple  glow  edging  the  clouds  in  the  east,  and 
the  marble  on  the  hill  caught  the  last  light  sadly. 
To  Anne  the  past  hour  was  already  taking  the 
misty  shape  of  a  dream — into  such  a  melodrama 
had  the  facts  of  both  their  lives  in  that  hour  been 
cast,  in  spite  of  the  simple,  open  story  Stallard 
had  told.  In  no  way  had  he  made  an  appeal 
to  her  pity,  or  to  her  sympathies ;  for  that  reason, 
he  had  both  wholly.  Outwardly  now,  as  they 
went  down  the  hill,  he  was  ironlike  once  more; 
but  there  was  a  softer  ring  in  his  voice  when  he 
spoke,  and  a  new  tone  of  understanding.  On 
the  old  bridge  he  stopped — looking  up  stream. 

90 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

A  long  raft  of  logs  was  floating  down  the  river 
toward  them. 

"  That's  the  way  I  came  down  to  go  to  col 
lege,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  I  walked  from  here 
to  Lexington." 

A  mountaineer  was  standing  at  the  huge  stern 
oar,  motionless.  As  the  end  of  the  raft  swung 
under  them  they  could  hear  him  singing;  and, 
still  smiling,  Stallard  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

"  I've  got  a  gal  at  the  head  of  the  holler, 
Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdy-deel " 

And  then  he  swept  the  big  paddle  through  the 
water.  Anne,  too,  smiled;  it  was  the  song  the 
young  trusty  sang  in  the  garden.  Stallard  bent 
lower  and  sang  back. 

"  She  won't  come,  an'  I  won't  foller." 

The  fellow  looked  quickly  up,  gave  a  "  hoo 
ray,"  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hat,  sent  the  re 
frain  up  with  a  hearty  swing, 

"  Heh-o-dee-um-dee-eedle-dahdy-dee! " 

"  He  doesn't  know  me,  but  he  knows  that  I 
know  where  he's  from,"  said  Stallard.  "  I  used 
to  go  over  to  the  Kentucky  River  and  bring  logs 
down  that  way.  We'd  tie  up  to  the  bank,  and 
then  we'd  all  go  up  the  middle  of  the  street  single 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

file.  We  didn't  know  what  the  sidewalks 
(hearth-stones  I  remember  old  Tom  Perkins 
used  to  call  them)  were  for.  We  went  back 
part  of  the  way  on  the  train,  and  we  climbed 
through  the  windows,  not  knowing  where  the 
doors  were.  We  called  the  cars  *  boxes.'  One 
fellow  climbed  over  the  fence  to  his  boarding- 
house,  never  having  seen  a  gate.  I  didn't  much 
expect  in  those  days  that  I'd  be  walking  along 
here  some  day  as  a  member  of  the  '  Legislator,' 
as  we  say,  and  with  the  Governor's  daughter, 

and  she  the  same " 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  stiffened.  At  the 
end  of  the  bridge  was  Marshall,  who  stepped 
aside  with  unnecessary  ceremony  and,  lifting  his 
hat,  bowed  with  elaborate  courtesy.  Not  until 
he  saw  Anne's  flush,  did  Stallard  notice  that  Mar 
shall  was  almost  staggering.  At  the  steps  of 
the  Mansion,  Anne  left  her  hand  in  Stallard's 
as  though  she  would  say  one  of  the  thousand 
things  that  were  on  her  tongue ;  but  her  lip  quiv 
ered,  and  that  was  all. 


92 


IX 

THE  session  drew  to  a  close.  Several 
times,  Anne  had  met  Stallard  in  the  street 
and  he  spoke  merely,  lifting  his  hat  now,  and 
passed  on.  She  had  asked  him  once  if  he  ex 
pected  to  come  back  the  following  year.  His 
answer  was  that  he  didn't  know;  he  would  come, 
if  he  were  sent ;  but  that  he  did  not  mean  to  turn 
his  hand  over  for  a  renomination.  Considering 
the  extraordinary  coincidence  of  their  lives,  the 
extraordinary  disclosure  which  linked  the  present 
with  the  past,  and  the  possible  fact  that,  in  a 
few  weeks,  he  might  see  her  for  the  last  time, 
his  course  now  was  inexplicable.  He  kept  to  his 
seclusion  rigidly.  She  could  not  believe  that  his 
interest  in  her  was  impersonal,  that  he  regarded 
her  as  merely  a  spiritual  embodiment  of  certain 
conditions  that  were  denied  him  at  birth,  that  he 
wanted  to  attain,  and  which  he  believed  were  be 
yond  him  altogether.  It  was  only  after  much 
thought  that  the  truth  flashed  and  seared  her  to 
the  heart.  He  saw  the  gulf  between  them.  He 
believed  she  thought  it  impassable,  and,  with  his 
strong  sense  and  sure  insight,  he,  too,  saw  that 
93 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

it  was.  He  was  too  proud  to  make  an  effort  to 
bridge  the  gulf — too  loyal  to  his  own  people  to 
cross  it  alone,  if  he  could.  He  would  walk  with 
them  on  his  own  side;  and  with  this  resolution  he 
must  do  as  he  was  doing.  She  liked  his  pride, 
and,  for  that  reason,  the  hard  conditions  on  which 
he  must  uphold  it  wrung  her  the  more  with  pity. 

Marshall,  too,  she  rarely  saw,  and  she  knew 
the  reason.  He  had  not  been  to  the  Mansion 
since  the  night  she  and  Stallard  met  him  at  the 
bridge.  What  she  heard  of  the  two  men  in  the 
House  kept  her  continually  uneasy :  for  no  mat 
ter  came  up  there  in  which  Stallard  and  Mar 
shall  did  not  antagonize  each  other,  and  Mar 
shall  said  sharp  things  which,  from  Stallard's 
lips,  Anne  knew,  would  bring  about  trouble. 

To  many,  Marshall's  bitterness  seemed  un 
reasonable,  but  perhaps  there  was  only  one  other 
person,  than  Colton,  who  so  much  as  suspected 
that  his  hostility  was  not  altogether  political: 
that  was  Katherine  Craig.  She  saw  the  inner 
play  of  his  mind,  of  which  Marshall  himself  was 
hardly  conscious,  and  she  sensibly  kept  it  to  her 
self.  Hitherto,  Marshall  had  met  his  rivals 
chivalrously,  as  he  would  have  met  them,  man  to 
man,  in  any  conflict — as  he  would  have  met  Stal 
lard,  had  the  mountaineer  been  a  gentleman. 
He  always  said  that  he  had  never  known  jeal 
ousy — that  a  common  admiration  was  to  him  a 
94 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

link  of  sympathy  rather  than  a  cause  of  hate — 
and  to  his  rivals  he  was  especially  courteous.  A 
foreign  lover  got  from  no  one  a  more  hospitable 
welcome  than  from  Marshall;  but,  with  Stallard, 
it  was  different.  The  mountaineer  had  shown 
himself  a  boor  by  exposing  his  enmity  before 
ladies  and  in  a  drawing-room.  War  was  de 
clared  between  the  two  before  he  had  even 
looked  upon  Stallard  as  a  possible  rival.  Not 
that  he  seriously  saw  him  in  that  light  yet — but, 
still,  he  was  far  too  keen  not  to  feel  the  hold 
the  mountaineer  had;  and  it  vexed  him  with 
Anne,  to  whom  he  dared  not  open  his  lips,  and 
gave  a  surprising  force  to  his  feeling  against 
Stallard.  The  mountaineer  had  power  as  an 
orator.  But  one  thing  appealed  to  the  girl  more 
— political  honor — and  that,  he  knew,  Anne 
believed  the  mountaineer  irresistibly  bound  to> 
achieve.  These  would  win  her  admiration,  her 
interest,  her  respect;  and  that  much  Stallard  al 
ready  had — yes,  he  confessed  quickly,  and  more.. 
The  mountaineer  was,  in  her  eyes,  a  man  with, 
a  people  behind  him — a  people  who  had  drifted; 
back  toward  barbarism  through  no  fault  of  their 
own.  They  were  kindred  in  distress,  and  his 
mission  was  to  aid,  to  uplift.  Moreover,  he 
was  new  to  her  in  all  ways,  and  he  had  not 
dropped,  like  the  others,  at  once  to  her  feet. 
Such  points  of  favor,  Marshall  counted,  could 
95 


THE    KENTFCKIANS 

never  win  Stallard  more  than  deep  interest,  deep 
friendship,  perhaps.  The  idea  of  love  would 
be  as  repugnant  to  her,  he  believed,  as  it  was  to 
him.  Intellectually,  she  was  quite  democratic, 
and  she  avowed  democracy,  but  in  her  exactions 
and  deepest  feelings  she  was  aristocrat  to  her 
heart's  core.  Thus  far,  Marshall  could  go ;  thus 
far,  he  went.  But  how  Stallard's  personal  his 
tory,  his  early  upward  fight,  his  frank  facing  of 
the  facts  of  his  birth,  his  just  bitterness  that  fate 
should  draw  the  dead-line  for  one  man  who 
wanted  to  cross  it  and  suffer  another  to  be  born 
on  the  other  side  and  care  nothing  for  the  ad 
vantage;  how  the  secret  inner  sorrow  that  his 
brother  had  put  upon  him  stirred  her  passionate 
pity — of  all  that  he  knew  nothing,  or  he  might 
have  been  uneasy  indeed. 

Anne  found  herself  in  a  curious  maze.  This 
brother  of  Stallard's  was,  of  course,  Buck,  the 
young  trusty ;  that  was  doubtless  what  he  had  yet 
to  tell  her.  Criminals,  after  conviction,  were 
sent  to  the  penitentiary  from  all  parts  of  the 
State ;  she  knew  that,  but  she  did  not  know  that 
moonshiners  were  not ;  and  in  some  way  she  had 
come  to  believe  that  the  young  trusty's  crime  was 
"  moonshining,"  which  she  had  come  to  regard, 
through  Buck's  testimony  and  Colton's  strictures 
on  the  revenue  service,  with  much  tolerance  and 
a  good  deal  of  sympathy. 

96 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

"  It  wasn't  no  harm  once,"  Buck  argued. 
"  Ever'body  made  liquor — some  fellers  was  jus' 
born  to  it.  An'  say,  s'posin'  you  had  a  field  o' 
corn  in  some  deep  hollow.  You  can't  tote  hit 
out  an',  if  you  did,  you  couldn't  sell  nary  a  grain. 
An'  s'posin'  you  had  a  big  family  an'  you  jus'  had 
to  have  somep'n  to  eat — coffee  an'  sweetenin'  an' 
sech.  Whar  you  git  the  money?  Thar's  the 
corn  an'  that's  all.  Well,  the  corn  is  yourn, 
hain't  it?  Yes.  Well,  you  can  do  whut  you 
please  with  what's  yourn,  can't  ye?  You  can  put 
that  corn  in  a  pile  an'  burn  hit  if  you  wants  to, 
can't  ye?  You  can  give  hit  away?  Well,  the 
only  way  you  can  git  money  fer  that  corn  is  to 
build  ye  a  still  an'  turn  hit  into  moonshine  an' 
carry  hit  over  into  Virginny  an'  sell  hit.  An'  I'd 
jus'  like  to  know  what  right  the  Gover'mint — 
whut  all  our  folks  fit  fer — has  to  step  up,  all  of 
a  sudden,  an'  say :  *  Here,  gimme  some  o'  the 
money  you  got  fer  that  corn  o'  yourn,  or  go  to 
jail.'  " 

This  was  the  boy's  tale,  and  she  forgave  much 
to  sincerity  of  motive  no  matter  how  mistaken 
it  might  be,  and  she  had  quite  accustomed  her 
self  to  thinking  of  him  as  the  victim  of  circum 
stances  and  of  a  misdemeanor  that  was  not  in 
itself  criminal.  Thinking  that,  she  had  allowed 
her  interest  in  him  to  deepen  unreservedly;  she 
had  suffered  him  much  liberty  of  speech;  and 
97 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

now,  Stallard  had  hinted  at  something  in  his 
brother  as  dark  as  crime  could  be :  so  that  she 
was  unsmiling  the  next  time  Buck  came  to  work, 
but  full  of  pity,  as  she  watched  him  under  a 
newspaper  with  which  she  shaded  her  eyes  from 
the  sun.  Was  it  possible  that  this  brightfaced 
lad,  with  his  careless  laughter  and  his  easy  chat 
ter,  had  human  blood  on  his  hands? 

"  Hit's  this  way,  Miz  Anne,"  he  was  saying. 
"  One  o'  them  wars  jus'  knocks  the  fun  out'n 
ever'thing.  Somebody  gives  a  party.  Thar's 
Keatons  thar,  an'  thar's  Stallards  thar.  Purty 
soon  thar's  a  row,  an'  the  party  is  busted  up. 
Folks  is  afeerd  now  to  have  parties.  Sometimes 
a  Stallard  and  a  Keaton  is  a-courtin'  the  same 
gal,  an'  sometimes  they  both  goes  to  see  her  the 
same  night.  Commonly,  they  makes  the  gal  say 
which  one  she  likes  best  an'  t'other  one  takes  his 
foot  in  his  hand  an'  lights  fer  home;  but  I 
knowed  a  case  once  whar  the  gal  said  she  jus' 
didn't  plumb  know  which." 

The  boy  was  wily  as  a  fox;  he  stopped  there. 
Something  was  wrong  that  morning — he  saw  it 
in  Anne's  face — and  he  was  trying  to  get  her  in 
terested. 

"What  happened  then?"  she  asked,  partly 
because  she  wanted  to  know,  partly  because  he 
was  waiting  for  the  question. 

"  Well,  they  jus'  stepped  out'n  doors  an*  fit. 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

An'  when  Jim  Stallard  was  a-gittin'  the  best  o* 
Tom  Keaton,  the  gal  gits  to  cryin';  an'  when 
Jim  gits  him  down,  she  runs  up  an'  pulls  Jim  off 
by  his  ha'r;  an'  Jim  says  the  next  time  he  fights 
fer  a  gal  he  wants  to  be  the  feller  what's  licked." 

The  girl  laughed,  when  she  felt  close  to  tears. 
Once  she  thought  of  asking  him  outright  if  he 
were  a  brother  to  Boone  Stallard,  but  it  was  no 
longer  possible;  when  the  mountaineer  wanted 
her  to  know,  he  would  himself  tell:  and  Anne 
went  in-doors,  much  troubled. 

That  day,  to  her  distress,  all  her  doubt  was 
dissolved. 

In  the  afternoon  she  took  some  friends  of  her 
father  through  the  prison.  Passing  through  the 
dust-cloud  of  a  room  in  which  prisoners  were 
making  laths,  her  eyes  caught  the  face  and  shape 
of  a  convict  who  was  running  a  thin  plank 
through  one  of  the  circular  saws.  The  jaw  of 
the  face  was  square  and  strong;  the  cheek  to 
ward  her  was  sunken  as  though  by  a  bullet  or  a 
knife  thrust;  and,  while  she  looked  at  him,  the 
man,  as  though  to  answer  her  gaze,  lifted  his 
dusty  brows,  and  the  cold,  evil  eyes  under  them 
met  hers  and,  dropping  at  onceJback  to  his  work, 
left  her  shuddering.  Almost  unconsciously  she 
touched  the  warden's  arm. 

"Who  is  that  man?" 

The  convict  fell  into  a  violent  fit  of  coughing 
99 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

as  she  spoke,  and,  when  the  warden  turned,  Buck 
the  trusty  was  nodding  brightly  to  her,  side  by 
side  with  the  man  she  meant. 

"  Oh,  his  name's  Stallard — from  down  in  the 
mountains — one  of  those  feuds — murder.  He's 
a  pretty  bad  fellow ;  everybody  asks  about  him. 
He's  got  a  brother  in  the  Legislature,"  he  added 
to  another  of  the  party ;  but  Anne  heard  him,  and 
was  sunk  in  such  sudden  wretchedness  that  she 
did  not  repeat  her  question.  She  felt  her  pity 
deepening  for  Stallard  as  she  walked  home,  and 
when  she  went  to  her  room  that  night,  she  was 
seeking  palliation  for  the  young  trusty.  It  was 
hard  to  believe  that  he  was  evil  in  soul — he  was 
so  light-hearted,  open,  frank,  and  humorously 
curious.  She  found  herself  going  back  to  the 
time  when  men  exacted  a  blood  penalty  for  a 
slain  kinsman.  She  recalled  the  boy's  words : 

"  S'posin'  somebody  was  to  shoot  down  your 
brother,  an'  the  law  wouldn't  tech  him — not 
couldn't,  now,  mind  ye  —  wouldn't.  What 
would  you  do?  What  would  any  feller  do?  " 

Then  she  faced  the  question ;  what,  under  such 
circumstances,  would  her  own  father  do?  She 
would  learn  the  details  before  she  judged  the 
boy.  No,  she  must  not  do  even  that;  Stallard 
would  tell  her  these  when  he  wanted  her  to  know, 
No;  she —  The  thread  was  snapped  there 
Why  was  she  trying  to  defend  this  boy?  For 
100 


THE 


his  own  sake,  or  through  her  pity  of  Stallard? 
Pa  ad  the  lad  appealed  to  her  on  his  own  account? 
Yes,  but,  ah! — and  just  there  the  white  hands 
sapped  from  the  bright  hair  they  had  been 
loosening,  and  Anne  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  win 
dow,  looking  out  with  startled  eyes  into  the  June 
night.  When  she  went  to  bed,  she  lay  there 
sleepless  and  a  little  frightened.  She  could  not 
put  one  image  outside  her  vision :  now  and  then, 
in  her  half-conscious  dreams,  the  young  trusty 
would  displace  it;  now  and  then,  Marshall;  of- 
tenest  of  the  three,  the  convict  with  the  sunken 
cheek :  but  it  always  swung  back  before  her  closed 
eyes  in  the  darkness,  fixed,  calm,  inscrutable — 
the  face  of  Stallard,  the  mountaineer. 


101 


X 

SHE  did  not  go  down  to  breakfast  next  morn 
ing.  She  stayed  abed  and,  early  in  the  af 
ternoon,  Katherine  Craig  came  with  disturbing 
news.  Down  in  the  mountains,  Colton  had  told 
her,  Mace  Keaton  "was  at  his  deviltry  again. 
He  had  elected  himself  sheriff,  and  had  suffered 
a  Stallard  to  be  shot  down  within  sight  of  him 
and  had  not  raised  his  hand.  Both  parties  were 
once  more  armed  and  organized,  and  the  Kea- 
tons  had  taken  to  "  the  brush."  The  judge  who 
had  gone  to  the  county-seat  to  hold  court  had 
been  driven  from  town.  Any  day  there  might 
be  a  general  conflict. 

Elsewhere,  Katherine  had  heard  more.  Mar 
shall  meant  to  bring  up  that  day  his  old  bill  to 
disrupt  the  county.  He  would  be  bitter;  and 
lately  Stallard's  patience,  it  was  said,  was  being 
worn  to  an  edge.  Trouble  was  feared. 

About  that  time,  in  the  House,  Marshall  was 
rising  to  his  feet.  He  repeated  all  he  had  said 
and  more — bitterly.  He  addressed  himself 
straight  to  the  gentleman  from  Roland.  Could 
he  deny  such  and  such,  and  such  and  such?  And 
102 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Stallard  had  to  sit  through  it  all,  white  and  si 
lent,  for  Marshall,  drinking  as  he  was,  took  care 
to  state  only  facts.  Still,  the  spirit  of  his  talk 
was  vindictive.  It  looked  as  though  he  wanted 
to  bring  about  a  mortal  quarrel,  and  Colton,  who 
was  watching  the  mountaineer's  face,  believed  it 
was  going  to  come.  The  ticking  of  the  big 
clock  could  be  heard  when  the  mountaineer  rose, 
but  there  was  no  answering  invective.  Not  once 
did  Stallard's  tone  rise  above  the  level  of  quiet 
conversation.  He  was  pale  and  his  eyes  were 
bright,  but  in  no  other  way  did  he  show  unusual 
emotion.  The  facts  were  as  the  gentleman  had 
stated.  He  had  said  much;  he  had  implied  a 
good  deal — that  was  irrelevant  and  unnecessary. 
It  was  not  the  place  where  those  things  should 
be  said,  discussed  or  answered.  The  gentleman 
seemed  to  hold  him  personally  responsible  for 
the  lawlessness  of  his  people.  Very  well,  he 
would  accept  and  bear  the  responsibility,  and  he 
pledged  that  body  that  he  personally  would  see 
that  law  and  order,  in  the  end,  prevailed. 

The  pressure  of  affairs — for  the  term  was 
growing  short — and  Marshall's  manner  and  con 
dition  were  already  seriously  against  his  bill. 
Stallard's  temperate  words  defeated  it,  and  Mar 
shall's  face,  flushed  as  it  was,  paled  a  little.  He 
was  standing  in  the  lobby,  when  Colton  came  out, 
and  a  friend  had  him  by  the  arm  and  was  trying 
103 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

to  lead  him  away.  He  tried  to  break  loose  when 
Stallard  appeared,  and  Colton  saw  the  mountain 
eer's  mouth  tighten  and  a  dangerous  light  leap 
from  his  eyes  as  he  stopped  still  and  waited. 
Another  friend  caught  Marshall's  arm,  and  Stal 
lard  walked  on  as  though  he  had  seen  nothing. 
But  he  went  on  with  a  quickening  step  over  the 
bridge,  and  he  walked  the  hills  till  dark.  The 
animal  in  him  that  he  had  been  slowly  netting 
with  such  care  was  straining  at  its  cords  now. 
It  is  never  securely  bound  in  a  nature  as  close  to 
earth  as  Stallard's  was;  and  nothing  will  make 
it  restive  like  the  kindly  eyes  and  voice  of  a  wom 
an  and  a  rival  claim  for  them.  It  had  turned 
with  leaping  fury  in  Stallard  and  made  him  pri 
meval  again.  Marshall  was  not  fooling  him. 
He  knew  the  true  reason  for  the  bitter  hostility 
of  that  day.  Marshall  feared  him  without,  as 
well  as  within,  the  legislative  chamber.  The 
mountaineer  had  no  traditions  of  chivalry  to  hold 
him  in  check;  and  he  went  on  stripping  himself, 
stripping  Marshall,  until  soul  to  soul  the  two 
faced  in  a  mortal  fight  for  mastery.  And  could 
Anne  have  seen  his  face  when  the  moon  rose  on 
it  out  in  the  fields,  she  would  have  heard  her 
heart  beat.  Had  Marshall  been  face  to  face 
with  him  in  fact,  as  he  was  in  mind,  the  mountain 
eer  would  have  killed  him  and  gone  striding  on 
through  the  fragrant  dusk,  an  exultant  savage,. 
104 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

It  was  late  when  he  got  back,  but  the  strain  of 
his  heart  and  his  brain  was  eased;  and  the  inner 
structure  that  a  strong  soul  builds  on  religion 
first,  and  then  on  a  love  of  law  that  is  born  of  a 
love  of  people  who  are  in  need  of  restraint,  was 
firm  within  him  again.  He  got  to  his  room  and 
to  his  books  with  the  tempest  in  him  calm,  and 
the  old,  old  resolution  freshly  made  to  run  his 
course,  as  he  had  started,  to  the  end. 

He  had  a  hard  time  with  his  law  that  night. 
Things  were  always  passing  between  his  eyes  and 
the  page  that  blurred  the  print;  and  he  was  glad 
when  the  hour  came  for  the  walk  that  was  a 
nightly  custom  with  him  after  his  task  was  done. 
Not  that  he  needed  exercise  that  night;  but  the 
walk  always  took  him  past  Anne  Bruce's  house, 
and  it  was  for  that  sole  reason  that  he  went  now. 
There  was  a  dim  light  in  the  hallway,  but  the 
parlor  was  dark,  and  so  was  Anne's  room,  which 
he  had  come  to  know  from  seeing  her  at  her  win 
dow,  half  screened  by  maple  leaves.  As  he 
passed  the  rear  of  the  hotel  beyond,  music  started 
through  the  open  windows  above  him,  and  he  re 
membered  that  the  last  hop  of  the  season  was 
going  on  that  night.  Anne  was  doubtless  there 
— and  Marshall.  Farther  up  the  street,  an  un 
usual  clinking  of  glasses  came  from  behind  a 
pair  of  green  shutters,  and  there  was  an  unusual 
stir  on  the  portico  and  in  the  hallway  of  the 
105 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

hotel.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  stood  Colton  in 
evening  dress,  mopping  his  face  with  a  handker 
chief.  Stallard  had  declined  to  go  when  Colton 
urged  him  that  morning,  but  he  let  himself  be 
dragged  up-stairs  now  to  the  door  of  the  ball 
room,  and  there  he  halted  and  stood — a  grave, 
unsmiling  statue — looking  on.  He  had  never 
seen  waltzing  before,  and,  while  he  watched,  his 
mind  was  on  a  dance  at  home — a  log  cabin,  a 
fiddle  and  a  banjo,  a  puncheon  floor,  and  men  in 
jeans  and  cowhide  boots  swinging  girls  in  linsey 
under  low,  blackened  rafters  and  through  the 
wavering  light  of  a  tallow  dip.  And  the  prompt 
ing:  "  Balance  all !  Swing  yer  pardners !  Cage 
the  bird!  Grand  right  an1  wrong!  Fust  lady 
to  the  right — cheat  an*  swing. "  What  a  con 
trast  !  Katherine  smiled  at  him  as  she  whirled 
past,  and,  through  the  dancers,  he  saw  Anne  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room  and,  near  her,  Mar 
shall — dark,  grave,  and  faultless  in  dress  and 
bearing.  Already  she  was  gathering  up  her 
wraps  and,  when  the  dance  was  over,  she  was 
moving  on  Marshall's  arm  toward  the  door. 
She  was  going  home,  and  Stallard  shrank  back 
that  she  might  not  see  him.  As  she  passed,  he 
saw  that  she  was  biting  her  lip  under  a  forced 
smile,  and  Marshall  was  frowning  darkly. 
Something  was  wrong  between  the  two,  and  it 
pleased  him  savagely. 

106 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

He  did  not  wait  long  after  they  were  gone; 
the  brilliant  scene  thrust  him  farther  and  farther 
from  Anne.  Even  to  his  eyes  she  was  marked 
from  every  other  woman  in  the  room  by  her 
simple  presence,  which  seemed  out  of  keeping 
with  the  rush  and  whirl  of  the  place.  And  if 
she  were  out  of  place  in  these  lights,  with  this 
music,  among  these  dainty  things  in  white — how 
would  she  seem  at  home?  The  thought  stung 
him,  as  he  turned  away ;  it  added  to  his  store  of 
bitterness,  but  it  helped  make  his  purpose  firm. 

The  Mansion  was  only  two  blocks  distant,  and 
straight  on  Stallard's  way  home.  The  door 
opened  just  as  he  was  passing  by  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  and,  having  stopped  uncon 
sciously  in  the  thick  shadow  of  a  maple,  he 
feared  to  move  on.  Marshall  came  out,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  Anne  stood  in  the  door. 
It  was  after  midnight,  and  the  street  was  still. 
Marshall  turned  and  began  talking  in  a  low  tone 
and  rapidly.  Anne  leaned  in  the  doorway,  with 
her  hands  behind  her.  Her  attitude  was  indif 
ferent  and  her  face  looked  hard.  She  made  no 
answer  as  Marshall  moved  down  the  steps,  and, 
for  the  second  time  that  day,  an  exultant  fire  ran 
through  him.  She  stood  a  little  while  just  as 
Marshall  had  left  her,  and  then  she  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  porch,  looking  across  through  the 
darkness  where  h£  was  hungrily  watching  her. 
107 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Her  eyes  seemed  almost  to  be  on  him,  as  he 
stood  uneasy  and  noiseless,  but  she  turned  and 
closed  the  door.  He  saw  the  light  in  the  draw 
ing-room  and  in  the  hall  go  out  and,  a  moment 
later,  another  appear  up-stairs;  then  her  face 
through  the  leaves  at  the  window  and  one  hand 
reaching  up  for  the  curtain;  and  he  stayed  on, 
just  to  see  her  shadow  pass  now  and  then,  till 
the  room  was  dark. 

He  started  for  his  room  then,  little  reckoning 
how  the  girl  lay  looking  with  sleepless  eyes  into 
the  darkness  above  her,  mystified,  perplexed,  dis 
tressed.  It  was  the  first  time  Marshall  had  been 
to  the  Mansion  for  a  long  while,  and  they  had 
had  the  worst  of  their  many  quarrels.  She  had 
heard  of  the  trouble  in  the  House  fully,  and 
her  sympathies  sided  resistlessly  with  Stallard. 
Marshall  was  wrong,  she  tried  to  argue;  it  was 
a  matter  of  justice,  she  said — as  though  justice 
guided  a  woman's  sympathies,  she  thought,  be 
fore  the  words  had  quite  left  her  lips.  Still,  she 
had  spoken  as  though  Stallard  were  a  stranger 
to  both,  and  Marshall,  with  one  reckless  word, 
had  made  the  matter  personal.  Then  was  she 
very  plain  with  him.  She  rarely  tried  to  hide 
the  truth,  even  when  there  was  no  need  for 
it  to  be  known ;  for  she  was  fearless  of  criticism 
and  especially,  just  now,  of  his — for  she  thought 
him  bitter  and  unjust.  So,  in  her  defence  of  the 
108 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

mountaineer,  she  indirectly  laid  bare  her  interest 
in  him,  and  Marshall  was  startled.  She  feared 
that,  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  she  had  put  that 
interest  too  strong ;  and  she  herself  was  startled 
to  realize  how  little  she  had  fallen  short  of  the 
truth. 

A  revolution  took  place  that  night.  Grown 
reckless  at  last,  Anne  faced  fact  after  fact,  ex 
traordinary  as  each  was,  and  finally  went  to  trou 
bled  sleep,  ceasing  to  question. 


109 


XI 

IT  was  well  for  the  three  that  the  session  came 
to  a  quick  end.     Marshall  went  to  his  farm ; 
Stallard  to  the  mountains ;  Anne  stayed  on  at  the 
capital:  the  summer  came  and  gave  the  three 
time  to  think. 

Anne  saw  the  leaves  grow  full,  the  hills  round 
with  beauty,  and  the  flowers  go.  When  the  trees 
got  dusty  and  the  hot  days  came,  she  too  went 
home.  She  saw  nothing  of  Marshall ;  she  heard 
nothing,  and  she  was  not  surprised ;  for  she  knew 
his  moods  and  his  ways,  she  thought,  beyond  the 
ohance  of  error.  Nobody  saw  Marshall  during 
those  days;  for  he  stayed  at  home,  passing  his 
own  test  of  fire.  Anne  had  cut  his  pride  to  the 
quick.  The  mountaineer  had  started  with  noth 
ing,  and  had  accomplished  all  that  human  effort 
could ;  while  he,  wanting  nothing,  had  done  only 
what  his  birth  and  station  had  impelled  him  to 
do:  that  was  the  blunt  burden  of  the  contrast 
that  he  had  drawn  on  himself  from  Anne.  In 
other  and  plainer  words,  he  was  little  more  than 
a  machine,  run  by  the  momentum  of  forces  that 
were  prenatal.  He  deserved  little  credit  for 
no 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

what  he  had  done,  and  great  censure  for  not  hav 
ing  done  more.  That  was  the  final  courageous 
interpretation  he  gave  her  words,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  his  self-searching  honesty  began  to 
tell  him  that  it  was  all  true.  His  humiliation 
was  bitter,  but  his  hurt  pride  was  turned  into  a 
power  for  good,  and  started  a  change  in  him  that 
nothing  else  had  ever  been  able  to  effect;  for  it 
forged  and  edged  a  purpose — started  him  on  a 
course  of  grim  self-denial  and  turned  him  to 
work. 

A  century  back,  new  life  was  put  into  the  lazy 
Virginia  blood  that  fought  its  way  over  the  Cum 
berland  and  along  the  Wilderness  Road  to  the 
interior;  it  needed  only  antagonism  then  to  give 
it  new  strength,  and  the  vigor  of  that  pioneer  ef 
fort  is  far  from  spent.  It  is  the  bed-rock  of  the 
Kentuckian's  character  to-day,  and  a  shaft,  sunk 
through  his  easy  good-humor,  rarely  fails  to  rest 
on  it  at  last.  That  far  down,  the  differences  be 
tween  Marshall  and  Stallard  practically  ceased; 
down  there,  they  would  meet  as  granite  meets 
granite,  when  a  great  test  should  come.  But 
now,  thanks  to  the  guidance,  since,  of  an  unseen 
Hand,  the  mountaineer  must  fight  away  from  the 
earth  for  strength,  as  Marshall,  for  help,  must 
fight  back  to  it :  and  the  love  of  the  same  woman 
was  the  motive  power  that  led  them  opposite 
ways. 

in 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

They  were  long  days  that  summer,  and  days 
of  gain  to  both,  but  the  Hand  still  bore  with 
unequal  weight  on  the  mountaineer.  Marshall 
saw  his  blue-grass  stripped  and  stored,  the  grain 
harvested,  the  corn  turn  yellow  for  the  knife. 
With  the  first  crisp  touch  of  frost,  he  was  busy 
in  the  hemp-fields.  Then  came  the  brooding 
days  of  autumn,  the  gentle,  pensive  haze  of  In 
dian-summer,  and  the  drowsy  rest  of  nature  filled 
his  mother's  heart  and  brought  to  his  turbulent 
spirit  an  unguessed  measure  of  peace. 

Not  a  word  came  from  the  mountaineer.  His 
mountains  had  swallowed  him,  as  they  swallow 
everything  that  passes  their  blue  summits.  Once 
Anne  saw  in  a  newspaper  that  the  leaders  in  the 
Keaton-Stallard  feud  had  met,  shaken  hands,  and 
signed  a  truce;  and  that  Boone  Stallard  had 
brought  the  reconciliation  about.  It  was  the  one 
fact  that  she  heard  of  him  through  the  autumn, 
and  she  thought  of  him  a  good  deal ;  for  she  was 
living  alone ;  she  had  much  time  for  speculations 
and  dreams :  and,  moreover,  the  way  of  chance 
is  strange.  Had  Stallard  been  an  acute  student 
of  woman's  nature,  had  he  given  years  of  study 
to  Anne  Bruce's  heart  and  brain,  and  then  have 
deliberately  chosen  the  way  to  reach  both,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  could  have  picked  a  better 
part  or  have  played  it  with  better  skill.  To 
show  his  secret  with  every  act  and  look,  and  but 
112 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

once — and  barely  then — with  a  spoken  word ;  to 
trouble  her  with  no  exactions;  to  give  all,  in  a 
word,  and  ask  nothing ;  to  be  strong — so  strong 
as  to  make  her  feel,  with  a  vague  dissatisfaction, 
that  there  was  in  him  something  stronger  even 
than  his  love  for  her,  and  then  to  pass  out  of  her 
life  as  silently  as  he  came  into  it — to  pass  on  and 
out  of  life  altogether  for  aught  she  knew — there 
was  hardly  a  detail  left  undone.  For  she  read, 
later,  that  the  truce  was  broken  once  more ;  she 
saw  Buck  Stallard's  name  among  the  prisoners 
whose  time  was  done,  and  that  surprised  her  and 
gave  her  great  relief;  that  his  crime  was  com 
plicity  in  a  feud — not  murder — and  that  per 
plexed  her  and  made  her  wonder.  Then  came 
news  of  a  fight  in  which  Buck  had  taken  part  and 
two  Stallards  were  killed.  One  of  them  might 
have  been  Boone.  Any  other  than  he  would 
have  sent  her  word,  if  he  were  alive.  Silence 
in  another  man  would  have  been  inexplicable — 
it  meant  nothing  in  Stallard.  He  had  never  so 
much  as  said  that  he  was  coming  back;  he  had 
said,  indeed,  that  he  would  not  turn  over  his 
hand  for  the  chance  to  return.  He  had  said 
that — and  yet  he  loved  her:  he  had  loved  no 
other;  his  love,  born  years  ago  with  a  look,  had 
suffered  no  change,  no  displacement :  all  this  he 
had  given  her  to  understand  as  plainly  as  he 
could  have  put  it  into  words.  She  would  have 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

smiled  at  such  a  tale  in  another  man,  and  yet 
she  hardly  wondered  at  it  in  Stallard :  she  simply 
thought  it  strange  that  fate  had  made  it  so.  Now 
he  was  gone — gone  for  good,  as  far  as  she  knew. 
It  would  have  been  beyond  reason  in  another 
man — it  meant  nothing  in  an  inscrutable  enigma 
like  him.  He  was  dead,  even,  as  far  as  she 
knew ;  he  might  be  and  she  not  know ;  for  once 
she  had  gone  so  far  as  to  write  Colton,  who,  too, 
had  heard  not  a  word.  So,  day  by  day,  wonder 
ing,  fearing,  thinking — more  than  was  good  for 
her,  good  as  it  all  was  for  Stallard's  place  in  her 
heart — Anne  had  to  wait  and  be  patient  till 
Christmas  should  come  and  the  new  year,  when 
the  session  would  open  again.  Then  she  wo«ld 
know,  and  not  till  then. 

One  thing  only  was  there  for  her  to  know  that 
summer,  that  would  have  distressed  her  less  than 
news  of  his  death,  and  that  was  the  storm  and 
stress  of  his  life.  He  had  told  Anne  the  truth. 
He  had  gone  home  with  the  resolution  not  to 
lift  hand  or  foot  to  secure  his  renomination.  Ap 
parently  no  move  was  necessary ;  for,  by  the  terms 
of  the  truce,  Mace  Keaton  had  left  the  moun 
tains  for  a  year,  to  give  the  heated  blood  of  both 
factions  time  to  cool;  and,  without  Mace,  there 
was  no  man  to  oppose  him.  So  Boone  Stallard 
gathered  his  mother's  thin  corn  in  peace,  as  did 
other  Stallards  and  Keatons  their  corn,  and  it 
114 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

was  the  first  summer  in  many  years  that  many  of 
either  name  had  worked  in  the  fields,  without  a 
rifle  close  at  hand  and  the  fear  of  an  enemy 
lurking  near  in  ambush.  It  was  a  time  of  inner 
tumult  to  the  mountaineer,  for  it  was  an  old  story 
retold  now — his  coming  back  home,  his  revulsion 
from  its  narrow  life ;  the  rough  talk  of  his  friends 
in  the  presence  of  their  daughters  and  wives ;  the 
rustic  uncouthness  of  the  young  women ;  the  pain 
ful  pity  that  attacked  him  when  he  newly  realized 
the  hard  lot  of  his  mother  and  sister,  whose  un 
consciousness  made  the  pathos  of  it  the  more 
piteous  to  know  how  helpless  he  was  to  aid  them 
in  more  than  the  simple  needs  of  existence ;  how 
beyond  him  to*broaden  or  uplift  them,  so  crystal 
lized  were  they  in  the  way  of  life  that  had  been 
moulded  for  them  so  long.  Contrast — it  was 
all  bitter,  hopeless  contrast,  when  he  saw  his 
mother  in  the  cabin  at  night  with  her  pipe;  his 
sister  with  hers,  now;  the  neighbors  drifting  in 
with  hats  on,  and  barefooted  sometimes — men 
and  women;  the  talk — it  struck  him  now  with 
ludicrous  inconsistency — of  homicide  and  the 
Bible,  the  last  killing  and  the  doctrine  of  orig 
inal  sin — from  the  same  lips,  with  hardly  a 
breath  to  bridge  the  chasm  between.  Even  in 
his  early  days,  a  sullen  rebellion  against  the 
chains  of  birth  would  break  loose  within  him; 
and  now,  with  Anne's  face  always  looking  from 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

water,  mist,  and  moonlight,  the  rebellion  was 
fierce ;  and  half-crazed  sometimes,  he  would  start 
up  the  mountain,  after  his  work  was  done,  and 
climb  until  there  was  no  leaf  between  him  and 
the  stars.  There  he  would  have  it  out  with  his 
own  soul,  and  with  the  wide  heaven  that  had 
put  him  where  he  was  and  did  not  chain  him 
there.  And  there  his  strong  courage  upheld  him, 
even  when  he  was  deepest  sunk  in  helplessness, 
and  he  would  go  down  under  cover  of  darkness 
to  look  at  the  old,  patient,  unembittered  face  of 
his  mother,  and  sometimes  he  would  go  to  bed 
with  a  half-born  resolution,  since  he  was  cast 
there,  to  stay  there  and  share  their  fate,  and  not 
try  to  breathe  an  air  that  was  thin  for  him  and 
would  stifle  them.  Then  would  it  come  over 
him,  with  an  awful  sense  of  desolation,  how  un 
speakably  absurd  were  the  high-wrought  dreams 
that  every  thought  of  Anne  once  brought  him. 
Where  was  the  place  for  her  ?  For  the  delicately 
nurtured,  exquisitely  dressed,  fastidious  girl  who, 
with  all  the  favor  she  had  shown  him,  yet  seemed 
as  distant  from  the  rough  background  that  lay 
close  behind  his  life,  as  though  her  home  were  the 
clouds  and  his  the  earth  forever.  But  it  was  his 
second  self  that  spoke  in  this  way — the  self  that 
was  born  of  contact  with  civilization;  for, 
whether  it  be  the  pride  of  independence  or  the 
complacence  of  isolation,  the  mountaineer,  recog- 
116 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

nizing  no  social  chasm,  believes  deep  down  in  his 
heart  that  he  is  the  peer  of  any  and  the  inferior 
of  none.  Even  with  Stallard,  this  feeling  was 
not  dead,  and,  with  him,  in  the  end,  little  that  was 
antagonism  counted  for  more  than  £he  weight  of 
a  straw,  when  into  one  cup  all  his  doubts,  specu 
lations,  and  purposes  were  strained  at  last — the 
cup  of  fatalism,  from  which  he  had  drunk  deep 
at  birth,  in  his  rearing,  from  the  grim  mountains 
that  had  cradled  him — the  draught  that  gave 
him  his  strength  and  drove  him  forward  when, 
without  it,  he  would  have  shrunk  back  and  would 
have  passed  from  the  earth  to  count  for  little 
more  on  the  stage  of  action  than  the  daily 
shadow  of  Black  Rock  to  and  fro  across  the  Cum 
berland.  What  is  to  be,  will  be.  He  was  not 
to  blame  that  his  ways  were  not  the  ways  of  his 
people;  his  aspirations  were  not  his  own — 
whence  they  came,  God  only  knew.  He  had  not 
striven  to  gain  Anne  Bruce's  favor.  He  had  not 
asked  to  take  another  place  than  the  place  to 
which  he  was  born.  He  had  asked  nothing  of 
friend  or  foe,  and  he  had  nothing  to  ask  now. 
Fate  had  put  him  where  he  was ;  fate  might  take 
him  out :  very  well,  he  would  go.  And  whether 
he  went  or  stayed,  he  would  do  his  duty  just  the 
same.  Such  was  his  final  thought;  and  no  man 
ever  watched  for  the  gleam  that  flashes  from 
within  as  Boone  Stallard  hearkened  to  the  inner 
117 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

voice  that  had  but  to  whisper  to  be  obeyed.  The 
people  wanted  him  to  go  back  to  the  capital; 
very  well,  he  would  go  back.  That  was  what  he 
told  the  Stallards  at  the  court-house  one  Satur 
day  afternoon,  and  when  he  started  for  home, 
his  brain  swam  with  the  thought  of  what  must 
come.  Responsibility  had  ceased  for  him — it 
was  fate  pointing  the  way  beyond  where  he  had 
dared  to  go.  There  was  no  turning  back,  then, 
when  a  little  later  came  the  crisis  in  his  moun 
tain  life.  Mace  Keaton  appeared  one  morning 
against  the  express  terms  of  the  truce — drunk 
and  defiant.  More,  a  little  later  he  announced 
himself  as  a  candidate  to  oppose  Boone  Stallard ; 
more  still,  day  by  day  the  startling  rumor  that 
the  Keatons  meant  to  uphold  his  return  and 
support  his  claim  crystallized  into  certain  fact. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Mace  Keaton  was  acting 
from  bitter  personal  hatred  of  Boone,  and  the 
Stallard  leaders  watched  the  latter  closely  and 
with  fear.  Always  he  had  steered  his  course 
clear  of  the  bloody  run  of  feudal  feeling.  His 
acceptance  of  the  nomination  meant  open  enmity 
to  the  Keatons,  open  arrayal  with  them ;  it  would 
make  him  the  Stallard  leader  for  the  years  to 
come.  And  they  knew  that  he  knew  the  penalty 
of  his  choice.  Apparently  he  took  no  time  to 
make  up  his  mind.  Straight  and  clear  came  his 
answer  at  once — he  would  run:  the  Stallards 
118 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

wanted  him ;  Mace  Keaton  had  violated  the  bond 
and  so  had  his  friends;  the  one  had  no  right 
there — his  friends  no  right  to  stand  by  him  when 
he  was  plainly  in  the  wrong. 

It  was  a  jubilee  for  the  Stallards — this  dic 
tum.  And  all  at  once  the  burden  of  leadership, 
the  responsibility  of  it,  and  the  terrible  risk  were 
shifted  in  a  day  from  shoulders  that  had  long 
borne  them — to  shoulders  that  had  been  well 
trained  by  other  burdens  to  take  on  more — if 
more  had  to  be  borne.  The  truce  not  to  take 
up  arms  held ;  and  the  Keatons  felt  honor  bound 
to  keep  the  more  rigidly  to  it  in  other  particulars, 
having  so  grossly  violated  it  in  one.  So  the  con 
flict  began  peaceably  enough.  But  the  conven 
tion  was  to  come,  and  nobody  had  a  doubt  as 
to  what  that  would  bring  to  pass.  Boone  Stal-^ 
lard  was  in  the  feud  at  last. 


119 


XII 

/CHRISTMAS  passed  and  the  time  was 
V_><  nigh.  The  House  was  open ;  new  matting 
had  been  laid;  there  were  divans  in  the  lobbies; 
the  cloak-rooms  and  the  library  were  fresh  and 
clean  and  the  flags  were  newly  furled.  In  the 
Lower  House  a  good-looking  mulatto  was  tack 
ing  to  the  desks  cards  that  bore  the  members' 
names.  A  portrait  of  Washington  hung  above 
the  dingy  gold  eagle  on  the  Speaker's  chair.  To 
his  right  Daniel  Boone  sat  on  a  log  in  a  sylvan 
bower,  cocking  his  rifle — with  a  vista,  cut  by 
the  artist,  through  thick  woods  to  the  placid 
Ohio.  To  the  left  was  Lafayette,  hat  in  hand, 
and  strolling  near  a  cliff  that  his  preoccupation 
made  perilous.  Each  picture  was  ticketed,  per 
haps  to  save  unwary  rustics  the  mortification  that 
the  memories  of  innocent  questions  would  later 
bring.  A  few  old  members  were  writing  in  their 
seats.  A  pompous  new  one  was  walking  around 
his  desk,  looking  at  his  own  name  openly  once, 
then  furtively  again  and  again. 

Passing  the  Senate  door,  one  saw  the  tall  por 
trait  of  the  great  Commoner,  his  face  smiling 
120 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

but  imperious.  Visitors  were  coming  up  and 
going  down  the  oval  stone  stairway.  Out  on  the 
steps  was  a  "  lady  candidate  "  for  librarian,  with 
an  imitation  seal-skin  thrown  back  and  a  bunch 
of  carnations  at  her  breast — smiling  up  into  the 
flattered  eyes  of  a  very  old  statesman.  Pushing 
a  wheelbarrow  toward  the  old  iron  gate  was  a 
trusty  in  stripes — a  sullen  fellow  with  a  heavy 
jaw  and  a  disfigured  face.  Over  in  the  gray 
hotel  of  Kentucky  marble,  a  crowd  of  tobacco- 
chewing  politicians  were  wrangling  about  the 
Speakership  for  the  coming  term.  The  parlor 
was  full  of  their  wives  and  children.  Outside, 
the  day  was  clear,  cloudless,  brilliant,  and  warm, 
though  along  the  road  the  moss  was  sprinkled 
with  snow,  and  the  hollows  in  the  black  hay 
stacks  out  in  the  brown  fields  were  plump  and 
white.  Out  there  the  hazels,  like  the  trees,  were 
bending  from  the  west — bent  by  the  wind  that 
blows  ever  from  the  sun.  The  far  distance  was 
hazy,  dreamlike,  reminiscent,  and  the  mood  of 
the  horizon  caught  Anne  when  she  turned  with 
Katherine,  on  the  hill,  to  look  at  the  yellow  west 
ern  light,  and  held  her  while  she  walked  back 
to  the  smoky  town.  Marshall  was  back;  so  was 
Stallard.  No  opponent  dared  to  face  Marshall 
in  his  own  party,  and  the  conflict  in  his  county 
of  rock-ribbed  democracy  was  always,  for  the 
other  side,  a  matter  merely  of  form.  So  far 
121 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

there  had  never  been  any  need  for  him  to  take 
a  thought  for  his  political  morrow,  and,  as  usual, 
he  stayed  quietly  at  home,  and  passed,  as  usual, 
into  his  honors  without  opposition. 

It  was  Colton  who  had  told  her  about  Stal- 
lard.  He  had  got  the  story  from  Jack  Mockaby, 
a  mountain  member  who  had  been  at  the  con 
vention  in  Roland.  Stallard  stormed  through 
the  little  court-house  like  a  mad  lion,  shaking  his 
finger  in  Mace  Keaton's  face,  defying  him  and 
his  clan ;  and  the  magnificent  audacity  of  the  per 
formance  so  dazed  his  adversaries  that  they 
finally  led  Keaton  from  the  court-house  and  left 
the  nomination  to  Stallard,  at  the  cost  of  a  life 
time  of  peace,  at  the  cost  some  day  of  his  life, 
maybe.  He  was  openly  the  leader  of  the  Stal- 
lards  now.  Pistols  were  drawn  that  day  after 
the  Keatons  came  out  from  the  spell  of  Stallard's 
cyclonic  oratory,  and  it  was  all  but  necessary  for 
Boone  to  take  up  a  gun,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  against  his  fellow-man.  At  the  last  mo 
ment,  Stallard  had  even  been  in  doubt  about 
leaving  home  for  the  capital,  questioning 
whether  his  duty  were  at  one  place  or  the  other. 
Any  day  he  might  need  to  go  back  to  a  mortal 
conflict;  and  then,  in  the  words  of  the  mountain 
member  which  were  familiar  in  Anne's  memory, 
"  there'd  be  Billy-hell  to  pay  when  he  did." 
Marshall  knew  all  this,  and  already  it  was  plain 

122 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

that  he  and  Stallard  would  be  contestants  for 
the  Speakership.  The  old  fight  for  disrup 
tion  would  surely  come  up  again,  and  be 
fore  Anne's  eyes  was  nowhere  the  light  of 
peace.  It  was  a  strange  wrench  from  the 
placid  run  of  her  own  life — to  have  her  sym 
pathies  drawn  into  such  a  current  of  mediaeval 
barbarism.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  in  the 
papers  about  the  feud;  about  the  people  who 
took  part  in  it;  the  method  of  warfare — ambush 
ing  from  behind  trees,  lying  in  wait  along  the 
roadside,  calling  men  to  their  own  doors  and 
shooting  them  down;  worse  still,  cowards  who 
had  a  little  money  paying  assassins  a  petty  sum 
to  do  their  bloody  work.  Usually,  it  was  said, 
one  faction  of  the  two  rarely  resorted  to  these 
means,  and  in  this  feud  the  Stallards  had  kept 
aloof  from  such  hideous  practices.  That  helped 
check  Anne's  growing  horror,  but  it  was  incred 
ible  barbarism,  and  when  she  went  back  to  the 
Mansion  there  appeared,  as  if  to  clinch  the  truth 
of  what  she  had  read,  the  only  figure  she  had 
ever  seen  that  might  embody  such  evil.  The 
warden  would  send  over  another  trusty  to  take 
young  Buck's  place,  her  father  said,  and  next 
morning  she  saw  at  the  gate  the  sinister  face  of 
the  convict  with  the  sunken  cheek,  and  Anne  was 
transfixed.  He,  too,  was  a  mountaineer.  Stal 
lard  was  one  possibility  of  that  life — here  was 
123 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

another.  She  had  the  man  told  that  there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do;  and  it  was  on  her  lips 
to  ask  her  father  then  and  there  just  what  young 
Buck  had  done,  but  her  delicate  honor  forbade 
— that,  Stallard  was  going  to  tell  her.  Why, 
she  asked  herself,  passionately,  did  he  not  wrench 
loose  wholly  from  such  a  life  and  from  such  peo 
ple?  Already  he  had  answered  the  question — 
without  cowardice  and  disloyalty  he  could  not. 
It  was  not  till  then  that  she  fully  realized  the 
mountaineer's  strange  predicament:  his  duty  lay 
where  he  was;  and  if  he  could  shake  himself 
free,  what  then?  The  instincts  that  go  with 
birth,  the  traits  of  character  that  grow  with  the 
training  of  childhood,  the  graces  and  culture  that 
come  with  later  associations,  could  never  be  his. 
Without  them  he  would  always  be  at  a  conscious 
disadvantage,  and  his  pride  would  allow  him 
no  peace.  For  there  was  nothing  in  Stallard  of 
that  lurking  hatred  of  the  born  gentleman,  which 
she  had  noticed  in  other  self-made  men :  the  bitter 
jealousy  of  him,  the  contemptuous  disparagement 
of  his  high  claims  and  exactions.  The  moun 
taineer's  bitterness  was  that  he  had  not  had  the 
chance  to  be  and  to  become  all  that  was  possible 
for  a  man.  He  was  doing  his  best  to  make  good 
what  had  been  denied  him ;  he  would  always  do 
that.  But  meanwhile — with  lips  sealed  for  some 
reason — he  was  as  helpless  in  the  web  of  circum- 
124 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

stance  as  a  fly  in  a  spider's  toils;  and  it  was  his 
own  strength  that  bound  him. 

Stallard  had  not  come  to  see  her;  she  did  not 
know  that  he  would  come,  even  if  he  were  not 
so  busy — if  the  stress  of  affairs  were  not  so  great. 
Both  the  men  she  had  seen  but  once.  She  was 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  Mansion  when  Mar 
shall  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
She  expected  him  to  lift  his  hat  and  pass  on,  but, 
to  her  surprise,  he  had  come  across  and  shaken 
hands  with  fine  control,  and  had  asked  that  he 
might  have  a  long  talk  with  her  soon.  The  days 
of  thought  and  settled  purpose  had  wrought  their 
story  that  summer  in  his  face,  which  was  brown, 
ruddy,  and  firm.  Some  change  had  taken  place 
in  him  which  made  her  wonder;  and  some  change 
had  come  over  Stallard.  Him  she  had  seen  from 
the  drawing-room  window.  He,  too,  was  pass 
ing  by  in  deep  thought,  and  the  sight  of  his  face 
choked  her — so  lean  and  worn  was  it.  It  had 
a  hunted  and  wary  look — Colton  had  spoken  to 
her  of  that — the  look  of  a  man  ever  at  high  ten 
sion,  on  constant  guard  against  an  enemy,  on 
guard  for  his  life. 

To  everybody,  the  change  in  both  was  quickly 
apparent.  Marshall  had  come  back  with  the 
purpose  of  being  considerate,  temperate,  and  just. 
Stallard's  timidity  was  gone.  He  had  taken  on 
a  new  front,  he  was  aggressive  at  the  start,  and 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Marshall,  to  his  surprise  and  vexation,  found 
himself  where  he  had  always  held  Stallard — 
on  the  defensive.  On  the  morning  of  the  first 
day  in  the  caucus,  to  decide  certain  preliminary 
matters,  Marshall's  hot  temper  flared  up,  and 
there  was  a  lightning  cross-fire  between  the  two 
men.  It  was  as  plain  as  noonday  that  a  clash 
would  come.  Marshall  had  become  a  little  un 
popular;  his  haughtiness  offended  some  and  his 
wealth  others ;  some  were  jealous  of  him.  These, 
with  the  following  upon  which  Stallard  could 
count,  were  enough  to  make  the  contest  of  grave 
doubt  to  Marshall's  friends,  and  the  situation 
did  not  help  Marshall,  who  brooked  such  rivalry 
with  little  tolerance  and  little  grace. 

It  was  an  old  tale  for  that  day,  and  one  not 
impossible  now.  At  first,  Stallard  declined  to 
arm  himself,  though  Mockaby  told  him  to  his 
face  that  he  was  a  fool  to  go  unarmed.  Neither 
meant  to  make  an  attack;  both  believed  an  at 
tack  possible ;  both  used  the  plea  of  self-defence ; 
and  when,  at  the  afternoon  session,  the  lie  all  but 
passed,  each  man  went  armed  the  next  day,  and 
the  close  friends  of  each  were  in  an  unrest  of 
expectancy.  And  on  that  day  Anne's  life  began 
to  be  a  melodrama  which  she  would  have  ridi 
culed  had  it  passed  before  her  on  the  stage.  At 
noon  she  heard  that  trouble  was  likely,  and  her 
father  had  told  her  that  ladies  would  not  be  al- 
126 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

lowed  to  enter  the  house  that  afternoon.  So  she 
stayed  at  home  and,  as  women  must,  lay  in  a 
dark  room  with  dry  eyes  and  nothing  to  do  but 
fear  and  think. 

Meanwhile  Marshall  had  spoken  once,  briefly 
and  bitterly.  Stallard  replied  briefly  in  kind,  but 
with  a  cool  moderation  that  inflamed  Marshall 
more  than  bitterness  could.  As  Marshall  arose 
again,  a  messenger-boy  laid  a  telegram  on  the 
mountaineer's  desk.  Colton  saw  him  start, 
quickly  break  open  the  yellow  envelope — and 
then  saw  every  particle  of  color  leave  his  face. 
There  was  but  one  answer  for  Stallard  when 
Marshall  sat  down,  and  had  the  listeners  been 
forced  to  sit  still,  while  a  bolt  of  lightning  played 
under  the  ceiling,  the  face  of  every  man  could 
hardly  have  been  more  intense,  nor  would  Mar 
shall's,  had  he  known  that  it  was  he  whom  the 
bolt  would  strike.  There  was  but  one  answer  to 
Stallard,  too,  and  Marshall's  white  silence  was 
an  omen  that  the  answer  was  sure  to  come.  He 
went  out  before  the  session  was  quite  over,  and 
Mockaby,  preceding  Stallard  a  step,  saw  him 
waiting  near  one  of  the  gray  pillars  at  the  far 
end  of  the  portico,  and  gave  the  mountaineer  a 
nod  of  warning.  Stallard  purposely  walked  to 
ward  the  other  end,  and  as  he  stepped  down  on 
the  brick  flagging,  Marshall  stepped  down,  too, 
facing  him.  Men  near  each  of  them  scurried 
127 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

quickly  out  of  line.  The  members  coming  out 
stopped  still  about  the  pillars,  and  Marshall's 
voice  cut  clearly  through  the  sudden  quiet. 

"  Stallard,"  he  called,  reaching  for  his  pistol, 
"  we'd  as  well  settle  this  thing  now." 

Stallard  saw  the  movement  and,  mountaineer- 
like,  thought  Marshall  meant  to  get  the  advan 
tage.  Like  lightning  his  own  weapon  flashed, 
and  the  two  reports  struck  Mockaby's  ear  as  one. 
It  was  hasty  work,  and  both  missed.  Marshall's 
revolver  spoke  again,  as  he  fired,  advancing. 
Stallard  hitched  one  shoulder  slightly,  and,  to 
Mockaby's  terror,  looked  down  at  his  pistol,  his 
face  unmoved.  Hearing  no  other  shot,  he  looked 
up  again  quickly,  and  stood  motionless  and  be 
wildered,  staring  at  Marshall.  Mockaby,  too, 
was  staring  helplessly;  for  Marshall,  seeing  the 
trouble  with  the  mountaineer's  pistol,  was  quietly 
waiting  for  him  to  get  ready  again. 

Stallard  reddened  and  looked  shamed;  then, 
with  a  turn  of  his  wrist,  he  tossed  his  weapon 
aside.  It  rang  on  the  flagging  at  Mockaby's 
feet,  and  Mockaby  stooped  mechanically  to  pick 
it  up.  When  he  rose  upright,  he  saw  Stallard 
striding  toward  Marshall  with  his  hand  out 
stretched.  Promptly  Marshall  stepped  forward 
to  meet  him,  shifting  his  pistol  as  he  came,  and 
midway,  the  two  men  caught  hands.  It  was  too 
much  for  the  on-lookers :  the  strain  of  mortal  ex- 
128 


•35 

nj 

1 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

pectancy;  the  gallant  magnanimity  of  the  one, 
the  perfect  courage  of  the  other.  Mockaby  was 
struck  dumb,  but  a  hum  of  enthusiasm  rose  be 
hind  him.  One  old  Confederate,  who  had  stood 
at  rigid  attention  against  a  pillar,  was  wiping  his 
eyes,  and  his  mouth  was  twitching;  and,  asStal- 
lard  walked  toward  the  gate,  a  policeman  held 
it  open  for  him,  and  touched  his  corded  slouch 
hat  as  the  mountaineer  passed  through. 

An  hour  later,  he  was  at  the  post-office  eagerly 
breaking  the  seal  of  a  letter  from  home.  He 
read  it  once,  and,  leaning  against  the  railing, 
read  it  again,  with  his  face  quite  expressionless. 
Then  he  took  his  hat  off  and  walked  bareheaded 
up  the  street.  The  warning  clang  of  a  coming 
train  brought  him  sharply  up  as  he  started  across 
the  track,  and,  reaching  for  his  watch,  he  found 
his  hat  still  in  his  hand.  With  a  shake  of  his 
shoulders,  he  hurried  to  the  Governor's  office. 

In  a  little  while  he  came  out  again  with  a  set 
face  and  started  for  his  room.  At  the  steps  of 
the  Mansion  he  looked  at  his  watch  for  the  third 
time  on  his  way  that  far,  and  with  the  hesitation 
of  a  moment  rang  the  bell.  He  told  the  negro 
girl  who  opened  the  door  to  say  to  her  mistress 
that  he  was  going  away,  and  had  only  a  minute 
in  which  to  say  good-by.  The  girl  shrank  from 
him,  and  Anne,  who  happened  to  be  starting 
down-stairs,  could  not  tell  what  he  said,  and 
129 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

hardly  knew  his  voice.  Coming  in  from  the 
strong  light  so  suddenly,  he  did  not  see  her ;  so, 
with  a  nod  to  the  servant,  she  let  him  pass  into 
the  drawing-room  without  calling  to  him,  and 
stopped  an  instant  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  her 
clasp  tightening  on  the  banisters.  She  had  just 
heard  of  the  all  but  mortal  meeting  of  the  two 
men — her  eyes  were  still  wet  with  tears  of  relief. 
Marshall  had  just  sent  her  word  that  he  was  com 
ing  to  the  Mansion  in  an  hour,  and  she  was 
wondering  why.  Why  was  Stallard  here  ? 

The  mountaineer  had  not  sat  down  when  she 
passed  in.  He  was  at  the  window,  and  he  heard 
her  coming  and  turned  quickly.  He  did  not  of 
fer  to  shake  hands — he  made  no  greeting,  but 
stood  silent,  his  body  swaying  slightly,  as  it  did 
when  he  was  greatly  moved,  and  he  looked  as  he 
looked  the  first  time  she  saw  him  in  the  State 
House,  and  Anne  felt  the  warning  flutter  of 
some  new  terror  and  steeled  herself. 

"  I'm  going  home  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I 
may  not  come  back  very  soon  ...  I  may  not 
come  back  at  all.  And  I've  come  to  tell  you 
good-by.  It's  come  down  in  the  mountains. 
They've  killed  two  of  my  cousins.  They've  sent 
me  word  " — the  curious  little  zigzag  streaks  of 
red  began  to  run  up  and  down  his  cheeks  when 
he  stopped  to  gain  self-control — "  that  they  will 
sell  my  mother's  cattle,  and — and  hire  out  my 
130 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

sister.  Your  father  says  he  can't  help  me.  So 
it  all  depends  on  me,  and  I'm  going  to-night — 
in  an  hour.  I  don't  know  that  I'll  get  back  .  .  . 
the  chances  are  that  I  shan't  ...  so  there's  no 
need  yet  to  tell  you  the  one  thing  that  I've  kept 
from  you  .  .  .  that  I've  kept  from  everybody 
.  .  .  here.  I  shall  tell  it,  if  I  come  back;  and 
then,  if  you  can  forgive  that,  I  may  have  some 
thing  to  ask  you.  I  can't  speak  the  words  now, 
and  how  I  shall  ever  dare  to  say  them,  I  don't 
know.  I  am  crazy  now,  I  think  .  .  .  but  you 
know,  you  must  know.  I  am  helpless  before  you 
— like  a  child.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  I  have  told  you  all  but  one  thing.  I've  kept 
that  back  .  .  .  from  everybody  .  .  .  but  I  shall 
tell  it  .  .  .to  you.  I'm  going  now.  I've  given 
my  word  to  the  people  there,  and  I'm  going  to 
keep  it.  You  are  the  one  person  on  earth  to  me 
.  .  .  besides  my  mother  and  sister  .  .  .  the  rest 
of  the  world  is  nothing  .  .  .  and  if  you  can  for 
give  one  thing  more,  as  you  have  forgiven  so 
much,  I  ...  I  shall  make  myself  worthy.  How 
I  shall  work  for  that.  Good-by  .  .  .  if  I  don't 
come  back  .  .  .  you  will  know  why  .  .  .  good- 
by." 

Already  he  was  starting  for  the  door,  while 
the  girl  stood  silent,  cold,  white.  To  save  her 
soul  she  could  not  utter  a  word,  and,  like  a  statue, 
she  watched  him  leave  with  a  broken  "  God  bless 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

you  "  that  gave  her  a  throb  of  pain  to  hear.  She 
heard  the  door  close,  his  heavy  tread  across  the 
porch,  and  she  followed,  opening  the  door  and 
looking  down  the  street  where  he  had  disap 
peared.  She  saw  a  figure  coming  toward  her,  but 
not  until  it  had  halted  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps 
was  she  aware  that  it  was  Marshall,  smiling  up 
at  her.  It  was  surprising  that  he  should  appear 
just  at  that  moment;  she  had  forgotten  that  he 
was  to  come,  though  she  still  held  his  note  in 
her  hand.  She  saw  a  keen,  curious  look  flit 
through  his  eyes,  and  she  felt  the  rush  of  tears 
on  her  face.  Then  her  father  spoke  from  the 
corner  of  the  steps  below — she  had  not  seen  him 
at  all. 

"  You  will  win  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  Mar 
shall.  "  Your  rival  has  fled.  There's  trouble 
in  Roland,  and  Stallard  came  to  me  for  soldiers. 
Of  course  I  couldn't  help  him — nor  could  I  help 
approving  his  plan  to  take  the  matter  in  hand 
himself.  I  don't  blame  him.  It  looks  pretty 
serious — Why,  Anne !  " 

Then  all  at  once  Marshall  seemed  to  under 
stand1;  for  an  instant  Anne  helplessly  met  his 
sharp,  straight  gaze,  and  before  she  could  speak, 
he  was  lifting  his  hat  and  turning  away.  She 
started  indoors  then,  swerving  slightly,  and  her 
father  caught  her  arm,  thinking  that  she  had 
tripped  on  something  and  was  about  to  fall. 
132 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

Stallard  did  not  appear  in  the  House  next 
morning.  Just  before  the  vote  for  Speaker  was 
cast  the  chairman  read  to  the  astonished  mem 
bers  the  withdrawal  from  the  race,  for  reasons 
to  be  hereafter  explained,  of  the  member  from 
Roland.  There  was  not  a  vote  against  Marshall, 
and  next  day  the  papers  made  public  the  reason 
of  Stallard's  absence.  Mace  Keaton  had  con 
trol  of  Roland  with  his  faction,  and  was  in  open 
defiance.  Stallard  had  sent  in  to  the  Governor 
his  resignation  from  the  House,  and  had  then 
gone  down  to  make  good  his  word  that  his  people 
could  take  care  of  themselves.  A  desperate  fight 
was  imminent  any  hour. 


133 


XIII 

TO  meet  death  a  rat  goes  to  his  hole,  a 
lion  to  his  lair ;  the  same  instinct,  perhaps, 
in  the  shadow  of  a  lesser  crisis  even,  sends  a  man 
home.  Marshall  took  the  train  with  Anne's  face 
still  haunting  him  like  the  face  of  the  dead. 
Chance  had  rent  the  veil,  and  he  had  turned 
away,  as  he  would  have  turned  had  chance  as 
suddenly  bared  the  girl's  breast  as  it  had  seemed 
to  bare  her  soul.  The  stupefying  calm  that  held 
him  broke  slowly  as  the  train  rushed  through 
the  winter  fields ;  and  slowly  his  hold  on  himself 
began  to  loosen.  By  the  time  he  was  climbing 
into  his  buggy  he  was  asking  himself  fiercely 
what  the  use  of  it  all  was ;  and,  a  moment  later, 
he  pulled  his  mare  to  her  haunches  before  his 
club  door,  in  answer  to  an  old  voice  within  him 
that  had  been  still  for  a  long  while.  He  had 
always  stopped  there  in  the  old  days,  and  it  was 
the  habit  of  resisting  the  impulse  since  those 
days,  perhaps,  that  made  him  suddenly  lash  his 
horse  on  now.  The  mare  sprang  ahead  with  a 
frightened  snort,  and  Marshall,  with  a  half-curse 
on  himself  for  his  thoughtless  cruelty,  called 
134 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

kindly  to  her  several  times  to  make  recompense. 
Then  he  settled  back  into  his  big  coat,  and,  a 
little  later,  he  was  on  the  white  turnpike  again 
speeding  home,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast  and 
the  same  fight  in  his  soul  that  was  there  on  that 
other  drive,  when  Stallard  first  came  into  his  life 
and  into  Anne's.  Only  the  yellow  evening  light 
was  almost  gone  now.  There  was  not  a  bird- 
note  from  the  darkening  brown  fields.  The  sun 
was  a  sullen  blotch  of  fire  when  he  reached  his 
gate,  and  the  woods  behind  the  house  were  black 
and  still.  But  his  mother  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  he  was  very  tender  with  her  that  night.  She 
knew  something  was  wrong — she  always  knew; 
but  she  waited  for  him  to  tell,  as  she  always  did; 
and  there  were  things  that  he  had  never  told 
and  could  never  tell,  which  she  never  knew 
nor  guessed;  and  he  was  grateful,  whatever  the 
shame  her  faith  and  his  weakness  brought  to  him. 
The  pantry  door  was  open  when  he  went  to  his 
room,  but  there  was  no  glisten  of  glassware  from 
within.  That  temptation  had  been  removed  long 
ago,  and  it  was  well  for  him  that  night  that 
it  was.  His  room  was  cold;  the  white  raoon 
through  the  window  looked  cold,  and  the  dead 
fields  and  the  gaunt  moonlit  woods.  The  whole 
world  was  cold,  and  every  riotous  drop  in  the 
veins  of  his  reckless  forefathers  was  running  wild 
in  his,  when  he  went  sleepless  to  bed  and  to  an 

135 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

all-night  struggle  that  sent  him  groping  back 
through  his  past  for  the  things  that  were  the 
stay  of  his  unthinking  childhood.  For  the  first 
time  in  years,  he  was  ready  to  go  with  his  mother 
to  church  next  morning  when  the  carriage  drove 
before  the  door.  It  was  a  sign  to  her  of  some 
unusual  distress  of  mind,  and  a  grateful  surprise 
that  she  was  too  wise  to  show.  Instinctively  she 
took  him  to  the  old  country  church  where  she 
used  to  take  him  when  he  was  a  boy;  and,  going 
and  coming,  the  little  school-house  where  he  and 
Anne  had  been  playmates  gave  him  a  sharp 
pang;  but  the  old  church  that  had  brought  its 
sturdy  walls  and  sturdy  faith  down  from  the 
pioneers,  the  saddle-horses  hitched  to  the  plank 
fence,  the  long  stiles,  with  the  country  girls  dis 
mounting  in  their  long  black  skirts,  the  atmos 
phere  of  reverence,  the  droning  old  hymns — all 
helped  little  by  little  to  draw  him  back  to  the 
faith  from  which  he  had  started  adrift;  to  stir 
memories  that  were  good  for  him,  and  to  make 
easier  what  was  to  come.  From  church,  several 
neighbors  went  home  with  them  to  dinner,  after 
a  custom  of  the  neighborhood;  and  it  was  after 
they  were  gone  that  a  negro  boy  brought  the 
morning  paper  to  Marshall's  room.  He  opened 
it,  and  read  one  paragraph  on  the  first  page  twice 
— then  he  threw  the  paper  on  the  table  and  rose. 
It  was  a  terse  telegram  from  Stallard  to  the  Gov- 
136 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

ernor.  The  fight  was  over,  and  Stallard  was 
safe  and  successful.  And  he  was  coming  back. 
Marshall's  acceptance  of  the  fact  and  its  prob 
able  significance  was  quick,  proud,  and  fiery. 
Only  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  got  quickly  out 
into  the  open  air.  His  mother  was  in  the  front 
yard,  and  he  did  not  want  to  see  her  quite  yet; 
so  he  went  into  the  parlor,  where  a  fire  was  still 
burning,  and  sat  down  by  the  window — forestall 
ing  the  days  that  were  at  hand.  He  was  before 
Anne  now,  paying  her  his  tribute  to  Stallard; 
and  from  the  depths  of  his  unworthy  satire  rose 
the  bitter  fact  that  what  he  was  saying  to  him 
self,  and  mentally  to  Anne,  was  literal  truth — 
the  mountaineer  was  worthy.  And  with  this 
realization,  he  suddenly  lost  the  power  to  feel 
the  thousand  subtleties  that  he  had  always  be 
lieved  would  prevent  Anne  from  joining  her  life 
to  Stallard's,  no  matter  what  her  admiration  for 
him,  her  respect,  her  pity,  or  even  her  love. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  jealousy 
started  throbbing  through  him,  and  he  knew  the 
hell  of  two  passions  fighting  his  soul  at  once.  It 
stretched  him  out  on  the  sofa  where  he  sat,  and 
he  lay  there  a  long  time,  dully  watching  the  even 
ing  sunlight  as  it  rose  slowly  to  the  face  of  his 
boyish  uncle  on  the  wall,  whose  life  and  death 
was  a  tragedy  that  seemed  meant  for  him  to 
play  again.  He  looked  with  a  deeper  sympathy 
137 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

now  behind  the  smiling  lips  and  the  reckless, 
smiling  eyes,  and  with  a  throb  of  pity  for  him 
which  was  half  for  himself,  he  hurried  out  into 
the  woods  and  the  dusk. 

It  was  startling  to  realize  that  nothing,  not 
even  religion  nor  his  mother,  had  governed  his 
life  as  had  his  love  of  Anne.  Without  her,  it 
seemed  that  he  must  lose  anchor  and  go  adrift. 
And  once,  in  the  night,  sick  with  fever  and  mad 
for  a  little  relief,  he  sprang  from  his  bed  to  take 
his  buggy  and  go  back  to  town  and  lose  himself 
in  the  old  way.  This  time  it  was  the  swift  vision 
of  his  mother's  face  that  stopped  him  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor — his  duty  was  to  her  now — and 
forced  him  in  an  agony  of  helplessness  to  his 
knees  in  the  first  prayer  that  had  been  wrung 
from  him  in  years.  That  was  his  crucial  hour, 
and  he  faced  the  morning,  grateful ;  but  he  stayed 
at  home  that  day  through  distrust  of  himself — 
and  to  keep  away  from  the  capital. 

Life  had  almost  begun  anew  for  him  a  year 
ago ;  he  believed  now  that,  without  Anne,  it  must 
begin  quite  new.  It  was  like  walking  back  into 
childhood  when  he  started  out  after  breakfast 
on  foot,  and  every  memory  was  a  healing  com 
fort.  When  he  passed  the  spring-house,  the 
geese  raised  their  wings  with  a  reedy  cackling 
and,  with  the  ducks,  went  swinging  down  the 
riffles,  as  though  they  yet  expected  him  to  throw 

138 


THE    KENTTJCKIANS 

pebbles  at  them.  At  the  stone  fence,  beyond,  he 
stopped  to  look  at  the  water  bubbling  over  the 
water-gap,  through  which  he  used  to  drop  his 
hook  for  perch  and  catfish.  Then  he  followed 
the  winding  branch  by  a  pig-path,  through  the 
thickly  matted  long  grass,  that  was  criss-crossed 
by  tiny,  beaten  roads  that  used  to  lead  many  a 
musk-rat  to  death  in  his  traps.  A  hawk  was 
sweeping  the  field  with  his  wings,  hovering  close 
to  the  grass  in  his  hunt  for  a  breakfast  of  mice. 
The  old  impulse  came  to  run  back  to  the  house 
for  his  gun,  and  the  gray  bird  swerved  like  a 
glancing  arrow  to  safety  on  a  dead  tree  far  out 
in  the  meadow.  Up  in  the  sun,  the  hill-side  was 
covered  with  sheep.  A  ewe  with  one  white  lamb 
was  lapping  water  at  the  grassy  edge  of  the  creek. 
Just  to  one  side  of  the  path  lay  another — its 
twin,  no  doubt — dead  and  mutilated,  and  across 
the  creek  hung  its  murderer,  a  robber  crow, 
dangling  by  its  wings  from  a  low  limb,  with  his 
penitent  beak  between  his  feet. 

He  was  not  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  had  to 
suffer.  Life  was  a  chain  of  suffering,  with  nature 
at  one  end  and  nature  at  the  other;  a  pyramid  of 
cruelty  with  man  at  the  apex  exacting  the  tribute 
of  sacrifice  from  below,  paying  it  right  and  left 
to  the  strong,  and  above  to  the  unseen.  He  must 
take  his  share.  There  were  other  motives  to 
action  in  life  than  love,  than  duty  to  his  mother 

139 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

— the  duty  to  those  of  whom  he  had  not  thought 
much,  and  of  whom  suffering  was  teaching  him 
to  think  now :  others  than  himself — his  duty  to 
the  world  around,  above  and  below.  He  might 
have  drawn  tears  from  an  audience  on  that  theme 
once  with  his  tongue  and  his  brain :  it  was  sinking 
to  his  heart  now. 

Anne  was  right ;  he  had  made  a  wretched  use 
of  himself.  He  had  been  weak  and  reckless,  and 
wasteful  of  the  time,  energy,  and  the  talents, 
whatever  they  were,  that  God  had  given  him. 
He  had  made  of  his  love  a  moping  luxury  instead 
of  a  motive  to  deeds  that  were  worth  doing ;  he 
was  selfish  and  degenerate.  He  loved  his  State, 
he  thought,  and  he  was  intensely  proud  of  it  and 
of  his  people.  Yet  there  was  Stallard  fighting 
like  a  savage  on  its  border — that  was  a  stain; 
and  there  was  he  provoking  the  same  man  to  a 
deadly  conflict  at  the  very  seat  of  order  and  law. 
Where  was  the  difference,  except  that  the  moun 
taineer,  as  he  claimed,  had  the  better  right  to 
fight  in  the  one  place  and,  as  Marshall  admitted, 
the  better  excuse  in  the  other.  It  was  hypocrisy 
for  him  to  blame  Stallard  and  to  justify  himself. 
Courage  was  a  passionate  ideal  in  him,  as  it  is 
in  his  people.  Human  life  was  worth  less,  he 
believed,  and  was  proud  that  his  State  believed, 
and  would  not  have  it  otherwise,  than  certain 
old-fashioned  ideals  that  were  still  all-powerful ; 
140 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

but  was  it  not  possible  to  lift  life  and  yet  not 
lower  those  ideals  at  all?  That  was  something 
he  might  have  helped  to  do.  Once,  a  political 
career  was  an  honored  one.  He  could  help  bring 
the  honor  of  it  back.  There  were  consolations, 
too — the  thrill  of  power  as  a  speaker,  the  exhil 
aration  of  conflict,  the  pride  in  a  good  cause — 
ah !  there  was  much  left  in  the  world,  even  after 
love  was  gone  out. 

All  these  years  it  had  taken  him  to  realize  sim 
ple  facts  about  which  he  had  thundered  with 
such  confidence  in  college;  and  now,  far  out  In 
the  woods,  he  lay  on  a  stone  wall  in  the  warm 
sun,  taking  in  the  comfort  of  his  discovery,  until 
the  mellow  tone  of  the  dinner-bell  rang  noon 
across  the  fields.  From  everywhere  came  an 
swering  shouts  from  the  darkies  at  work;  and 
when  he  climbed  the  yard  fence  going  home  he 
could  hear  the  jingling  traces  of  the  plough- 
horses  crowding  into  the  barn-yard,  and  the 
laughing  banter  of  the  darkies  about  the  white 
washed  cabins.  It  was  all  very  busy  and  peace 
ful  and  comforting,  and  it  was  his  to  have  day 
after  day,  when  he  pleased. 

And  so,  that  afternoon,  it  seemed  a  bigger 
and  a  kindlier  world  when  he  started  out  again 
through  the  winter  blue-grass,  past  the  white  to 
bacco-barn,  past  the  spring  in  the  woods,  gush 
ing  from  under  a  rock  over  rich,  bent  grass,  May- 
141 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

green ;  on  over  brown  turf  and  under  gray  woods 
to  the  "  field  "  where  the  breakers  were  at  work. 
How  he  would  fool  the  birds  that  croaked  evil 
of  him !  All  over  the  hill-side  the  hemp  lay  in 
shining  swaths.  Two  darkies  were  picking  it  up 
with  wooden  hooks;  another  was  working  at  a 
brake,  which,  at  that  distance,  looked  absurdly 
like  a  big  doll-baby  with  tow-linen  skirts  blowing 
in  the  wind.  The  rest  were  idling  about  a  fire 
of  hurds.  The  overseer  stood  near  with  his  hand 
outstretched,  as  though  he  were  arguing.  He 
was  having  trouble  of  some  kind,  for  but  one 
other  negro  was  at  work,  an  old  fellow  with  gray 
whiskers,  thick  lips,  and  a  striped  over-suit  of 
cotton.  Nobody  could  hear  Marshall's  tread 
on  the  thick  turf. 

"  Hemp  gone  down,  boys,"  the  overseer  was 
saying.  "  Can't  pay  you  more — sorry.  If  you 
don't  like  the  price,  you  needn't  work.  No 
body's  feelin's  hurt.  Brakes  won't  go  beggin'." 

The  old  darky  picked  on.  The  brawny 
breaker  swooped  up  a  fresh  armful  with  his  left 
hand,  and,  with  his  right,  brought  the  heavy  up 
per  swords  crackling  down  on  the  stiff  stalks  until 
his  figure  was  lost  in  a  gray  cloud  of  hurds. 

"  Dat's  right,"  said  one  of  the  idlers.  "  I 
ain't  gwine  to  wuck." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  overseer.  "  Hit  the 
pike.  Nobody's  feelin's  hurt.  Brakes  won't  go 
142 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

beggin'.  Could  V  got  hands  in  town  yesterday, 
but  wanted  to  give  you  boys  a  chance.  Hit  the 
pike." 

The  man  at  the  brake  seemed  not  to  hear.  His 
hemp  had  got  bright  and  flexible,  and  it  sank  like 
folds  of  iron-gray  hair  down  through  the  lower 
swords,  which  were  smooth,  shining,  and  curved 
like  the  throat  of  a  harp.  The  idlers  had  all 
started  from  the  fire,  but  only  one  reached  the 
fence  at  the  pike,  and  he  turned  on  the  top  rail 
and  looked  back.  Slowly,  one  after  another, 
the  men  were  going  to  work.  It  was  Marshall's 
own  orders  that  the  shrewd  overseer  had  given 
the  simple  negroes.  There  was  another  thing 
that  he  might  have  done  than  cut  their  wages 
down — he  could  have  taken  less  profit  for  him 
self — and  he  did  that  now. 

"  Give  them  the  old  price,"  he  called,  in  a  low 
voice,  but  they  heard,  and  a  row  of  white  teeth 
shone  in  every  black  face.  It  was  to  him  like 
light  to  darkness — that  grateful  flash.  It  helped 
the  deeps  to  open  as  he  turned  away.  Love  was 
not  everything.  All  day  that  fact  had  beat  in 
on  him  persistently,  and  it  was  strange  that  never 
once  came  with  it  the  suspicion  that  Anne  too 
might  know  that,  with  a  man,  love  should  not  be 
everything;  that  she  might  be  generous  enough 
to  accept  the  fact;  unselfish  enough  to  exact  it  of 
him;  that  his  love  for  her  was  a  weakness  that 
143 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

kept  Her  from  perfect  respect  for  him  as  long  as 
it  kept  him  from  paying  the  debt  that  he  owed 
to  his  State,  his  name,  and  to  himself ;  and  that, 
being  a  goal  In  itself,  her  love  might  lose  value 
when  he  had  gained  it.  Stallard  was  coming 
back.  Until  Anne  should  open  her  lips,  it  was  no 
more  his  business  than  if  he  had  never  known 
her.  Again  and  again  the  thought  had  forced  it 
self  on  him,  with  some  bitterness,  that  she  hadnot 
been  altogether  just  and  frank.  Now  he  straight 
way  gave  her  absolution.  Women  did  not  under 
stand  friendship  as  men  did;  besides  both  were 
not  friends — he  was  a  lover.  She  may  not  have 
wanted  to  pain  him.  The  flash  may  have  come 
to  her  as  to  him  from  a  clear  sky.  But  it  had 
come,  and  his  way  was  straight,  and  it  led  him 
into  a  calm  that  was  like  the  quiet  sunset  that  he 
faced,  turning  homeward. 

Away  off  in  the  east,  across  the  gently  concave 
sky,  some  little  blue  clouds  had  begun  to  turn 
golden.  The  air  had  grown  cold  and  the  shad 
ows  long.  The  crows  were  coming  home  to 
roost ;  there  was  a  line  of  black  specks  across  the 
low,  even  band  of  yellow  that  lay  across  the  west 
like  a  stubble  wheat-field  at  noon.  Against  this 
the  trees,  with  trunks  invisible,  were  set  bright, 
sharp,  and  clear;  and  when  he  reached  the  brow 
of  a  low  hill  he  saw,  black  and  distinct  against 
the  after-glow,  the  last  of  the  many  pictures  that 
144 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

were  etched  on  his  brain  that  day  to  stay — the 
dim,  sloping  barn,  the  black  cedars  with  one  light 
shining  through  them,  and,  above,  the  roof  that 
sheltered  his  mother,  his  father's  memory,  and 
a  name  of  which,  henceforth,  please  God,  he 
should  make  himself  worthy. 

At  once  he  put  his  purpose  to  a  bitter  test, 
when  he  reached  the  darkened  house,  by  going 
upstairs  and  straight  to  his  book  of  memories. 
And  there,  in  the  dusk,  he  tore  out  the  leaves  one 
by  one  and  heaped  them  in  the  grate.  Then  he 
set  them  afire  and  left  the  room  that  he  might 
not  see  them  burn. 

The  blaze  lit  up  the  room  and  showed  the  pic 
ture  of  Anne  on  the  mantel — in  white  muslin, 
with  a  blue  ribbon  about  her  throat  and  a  Leg 
horn  hat  in  her  lap.  It  showed,  too,  the  paper 
on  the  table,  where  Marshall  had  thrown  it  the 
day  before,  and  by  the  light  one  could  have 
read  Stallard's  message  to  the  Governor — it  was 
as  laconic  as  Caesar's: 

"  I  told  you  I  should  retake  my  fireside.  It's 
done." 


145 


XIV 

COLTON  himself  had  gone  to  the  scene  of 
the  conflict,  and,  on  the  second  day,  the 
people  in  the  capital  read  the  story  of  the  fight : 
and  nothing  was  lost  to  it,  nor  to  Stallard,  in  the 
telling.  Colton  had  got  the  mountaineer's  terse 
message  to  the  Governor,  and  the  ring  of  it  and 
the  passion  for  analogy  spun  the  story  around  a 
circuit  that  made  Stallard  notorious.  The  moun 
taineer  had  led  his  law-and-order  party  into  the 
town,  as  a  sheriff's  posse,  at  daybreak.  At  that 
hour  the  sheriff  disappeared  and  Stallard  alone 
was  in  command.  His  coolness,  witnesses  said, 
was  extraordinary.  One  man  had  seen  him  stop 
shooting  in  the  heat  of  the  fight,  deliberately 
touch  the  muzzle  of  his  Winchester  to  the 
ground,  and,  while  two  Keatons  were  cross-firing 
at  him,  deliberately  resume  again.  He  was  ner 
vous,  he  explained  afterward,  having  been  with 
out  sleep  and  on  an  intense  strain  for  forty-eight 
hours,  and  he  had  been  told  that,  in  a  fight,  it 
would  calm  a  man  simply  to  touch  his  gun  to  the 
earth.  Evidently  it  did  calm  him,  for  at  his  first 
shot  thereafter  a  Keaton  dropped  to  the  ground 
146 


THE    KENTUCKIA^S 

with  a  broken  shoulder.  Mace  Keaton  and  three 
others  would  give  no  further  trouble,  Colton 
concluded;  and,  indeed,  the  feud  in  that  county 
was  done.  The  intimidated  were  plucking  up 
heart,  and  the  good  men  of  the  county  were  tak 
ing  Stallard's  part.  Several  ringleaders  had  been 
arrested,  and  would  be  sent  to  the  blue-grass  for 
trial.  Boone  Stallard  had  made  his  word  good. 

That  afternoon  Marshall  asked  that  his  old 
bill  for  disruption  be  voted  down,  gave  Stallard 
a  eulogy,  and  went  home,  half  ill.  The  House 
entered  a  unanimous  protest  against  the  moun 
taineer's  resignation  of  his  seat,  though  Colton 
had  written  that  Stallard  would  return  to  the 
capital  for  only  a  few  days,  and  would  go  back, 
then,  where  he  was  needed — home. 

A  week  later,  Marshall  and  the  mountaineer 
reached  the  capital  on  the  same  day.  As  the 
purpose  of  both  was  the  same,  it  was  not  un 
natural  that,  when  Marshall  came  to  see  Anne 
in  the  afternoon,  she  should  have  just  received  a 
note  from  Stallard,  asking  if  he  could  come  that 
night.  She  was  in  the  haze  of  great  mental  dis 
tress  when  Marshall's  name  was  brought  to  her; 
she  was  stifling  for  the  open  air,  and  the  day  was 
a  sunny  promise  of  spring — a  day  that  may  stand 
sharply  out  in  any  season  as  a  forecast  of  the 
next  to  come.  So  Anne  came  down  dressed  for  a 
walk,  and  it  was  a  trick  of  the  fate  whose  hand 
147 


THE    KENTTJCKIANS 

seemed  ever  at  Stallard's  throat  that  led  the  three 
together  on  the  hill.  As  they  passed  through  the 
old  bridge  they  met  several  people  driving — so 
warm  was  the  air — and  when  they  turned  off 
from  the  river,  Anne  directed  Marshall's  atten 
tion  up  the  hill  and  smiled. 

"  I'm  not  as  freakish  as  you  might  think,"  she 
said. 

Colton  and  Katherine  were  far  above  them, 
walking  slowly,  and  when  they  reached  the  curve 
of  the  road,  Colton  was  waving  at  them  from  the 
other  end  of  the  segment  and  close  to  the  crest  of 
the  hill.  Twice  he  pointed  significantly  toward 
the  road  below  him,  and,  in  a  moment,  Anne  saw 
why.  Stallard's  tall  figure  was  moving  slowly 
up  the  pike,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
and  his  head  bent  far  over.  The  gate  at  the  oak- 
tree  was  opposite,  and  Anne  turned  toward  it 
from  the  road.  Marshall,  seeing  Stallard  just 
then,  knew  why,  and  turned,  too,  without  a  word. 
Had  a  thunder-cloud  swept  suddenly  over  the 
sun,  the  day  could  not  have  been  more  swiftly 
darkened  for  both;  for  Anne's  silent  recoil  was 
to  Marshall  another  surprised  confession,  how 
ever  vague,  and  had  Anne  but  glanced  at  him 
she  would  have  known  that  with  him,  too,  a  de 
cisive  moment  was  at  hand.  She  could  not  help 
looking  back,  even  after  she  had  passed  through 
the  gate  and  was  following  Marshall  up  the  path. 
148 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

The  mountaineer  had  turned,  and  was  walking 
down  the  road,  his  figure  unchanged.  While  she 
looked,  he  slowly  turned  again,  as  though  he 
were  pacing  to  and  fro,  waiting  for  some  jne. 
He  looked  weak  and  he  looked  wretched,  and 
the  girl's  breath  came  hard.  The  mountaineer 
had  come  back  to  tell  her  what  she  already  knew, 
that  Buck,  the  young  trusty  who  had  worked  in 
her  garden,  was  the  brother  of  whom  he  had 
spoken,  and  to  ask  her — what?  And  what 
should  she  say?  It  was  plain  now — his  course 
from  the  beginning:  his  struggle  with  his  duty 
to  his  people,  his  temptation  to  hide  from  the 
world  the  one  thing  that  he  had  left  untold  to 
her.  If  she  forgave  that — and  she  had — he 
meant  to  ask  her — she  well  knew  what — and 
what  should  she  say?  What  could  she  say? 
For  days  she  had  not  been  able  to  think  of  any 
thing  else — she  could  think  of  nothing  else 
now.  The  horror  of  it  all  had  swept  freshly 
over  her  after  the  relief  of  Stallard's  safety  came 
— horror  at  what  he  had  done,  though  she  knew 
she  would  have  despised  him  had  he  even  hesi 
tated  doing  it;  horror  at  the  life  with  which  he 
was  so  mercilessly  linked,  of  which  she  knew  so 
little,  and  from  which  she  was  beginning  to 
shrink  as  she  shrank  from  the  terrible  convict 
who  typified  to  her  all  the  evil  she  had  heard, 
and  was  the  one  distinct  figure  in  the  awful  dark- 
149 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

ness  of  which  she  dreamed.  And  yet,  one  by 
one,  the  barriers  that  would  have  made  Stallard's 
question  absurd  a  year  ago  had  slowly  fallen 
until  now  it  troubled  her  as  nothing  else  of  the 
kind  ever  had.  Never  had  love  in  another  man 
thrilled  her  as  it  thrilled  her  in  Stallard — that 
much  was  sure.  She  had  for  him  perfect  respect, 
high  admiration,  deep  pity — what  else  more  she 
did  not  know. 

It  was  odd  that  Marshall  should  stop  at  the 
same  tree  where  she  and  Stallard  had  stopped 
nearly  a  year  before;  that  she  should  sit  quite 
mechanically  on  the  same  root  where  she  had 
sat  before ;  odd  that  he  should  lie  where  Stallard 
had  lain.  The  contrast  was  marked  now  between 
the  clean,  graceful  figure  stretched  easily  on  the 
sun-warmed,  yellow  grass  and  the  loose,  power 
ful  bulk  of  the  mountaineer.  She  remembered 
Stallard's  unshorn  head,  looking  now  at  Mar 
shall's  carefully  kept  brown  hair.  The  sunlight 
showed  its  slight  tendency  to  crinkle;  she  had 
always  hated  that,  but  no  more,  she  knew,  than 
did  he.  It  was  odd  that  so  slight  a  thing  should 
so  worry  her  now.  The  faces  of  both  were 
smooth,  and,  to  Anne's  searching  insight,  the  life 
of  both  was  written  plain,  except  for  one  dark 
spot  from  which,  in  each,  she  shrank.  It  had 
kept  her  from  fully  trusting  one ;  it  had  held  her 
sometimes  in  an  unaccountable  dread  of  the 
150 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

other.  Marshall  was  not  gaining  ground  as  he 
lay  there  with  his  hat  tilted  over  his  eyes  and  a 
blade  of  withered  grass  between  his  teeth — easy, 
indolent,  an  image  to  her  of  wasting  power — for 
Anne  was  thinking  of  Stallard  down  in  the  road, 
and  it  was  well  for  him  that  he  began  to  speak. 
No  woman  could  listen  with  indifference  to  a 
voice  that  was  so  rich  and  low ;  that  told  all  the 
good  in  him  and  none  of  the  evil. 

"  Anne,"  he  said,  and  the  girl  raised  her  head 
quickly.  She  could  hardly  remember  when  he 
had  called  her  by  her  first  name,  and  the  tone 
of  his  voice  was  new.  "  Anne,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  firm  note  of  possession,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  that  made  her  pulse  with  sudden  resentment, 
"  I  am  done  now." 

His  tone  was  almost  harsh,  and  he  was  not 
looking  at  her,  but  at  a  vivid  patch  of  young 
wheat  that  glanced  like  an  emerald  on  the  brown 
top  of  a  distant  sunlit  hill.  And  Anne,  looking 
hard  at  him,  saw  again  the  change  that  the  sum 
mer  had  brought.  The  fieriness  was  gone  from 
him,  and  the  old,  impetuous  way  of  breaking  into 
a  torrent  of  words,  and  as  suddenly  breaking  off 
in  a  useless  effort  to  frame  thought  and  feeling. 
He  looked  as  calm  as  a  young  monk  she  had  once 
seen  at  Gethsemane — as  calm  as  though  his 
peace,  too,  was  made  for  earth  as  well  as  heaven. 

"  Let  me  see.     It  must  have  been  ten  years 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

ago.  It  was  coming  home  through  the  woods 
from  the  old  school-house.  I  had  a  red  welt  on 
my  forehead.  I  told  you  I  had  got  it  playing 
town-ball — that  was  not  true.  I  got  it  fighting 
about  you.  It  was  Indian  summer,  I  recollect 
that,  and  sunset — you  remember,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  wonderingly  and  almost 
gently;  but  she  was  thinking,  too,  of  Stallard 
going  up  and  down  the  road — he  looked  lonely. 

u  I  asked  you  to  be  my  sweetheart,  and  I  was 
just  sixteen."  Marshall  might  have  been  repeat 
ing  words  that  had  been  carefully  prepared,  so 
finished  were  his  sentences,  so  dramatic  the  qual 
ity  of  them,  "  and  you  said  l  yes  ' ;  yes,  you  said 
*  yes  ' ;  and  that  was  ten  years  ago,  and  I  have 
never  loved  another  woman  since.  I  have  made 
no  pretence  of  loving  another;  or  of  not  loving 
one.  When  I  came  home  from  college,  some 
thing  had  happened,  and  you  began  to  say  *  no  ' ; 
but  I  kept  on  loving  you  just  the  same — and  you 
kept  on  saying  '  no.'  I  am  doing  the  one  thing 
now,  and  you  are  still  doing  the  other.  Ten 
years!  That  gives  me  some  rights,  little  as  I 
may  otherwise  deserve  them,  doesn't  it,  Anne?  " 
The  voice  was  doing  good  work  now. 

"  Yes,  Rannie,"  she  said,  and  she  had  never 

called  him  by  that  name  since  he  went  away  to 

school;  but  if  he  noticed  it,  he  gave  no  sign. 

The  green  on  the  hill-top  still  held  his  eyes,  and 

152 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

for  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  The  sunlight 
was  very  rich  for  midwinter,  as  rich  as  though  it 
had  been  sifted  through  gold-dust  somewhere. 
It  seemed  palpable  enough  to  grasp  with  the 
hand  across  the  running  water  that  was  making 
it  pulse  in  quivering  circles  along  bush  and  tree. 
It  foretold  an  early  spring,  and  made  Anne  think 
of  the  shy  green  of  young  leaves  and  the  gold 
of  the  same  sunlight  a  year  ago,  and  then  of 
Stallard,  through  the  soft,  gray  cloud  of  wiinter 
trees,  walking  up  and  down  the  road,  waiting. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  them  now.  People  inherit 
tendencies  to  go  down." 

Anne  turned  to  him  again:  he  was  speaking 
of  himself,  and  he  had  never  done  that  before 
but  once. 

"  Everybody  knows  and  remembers  that. 
People  may,  at  the  same  time,  inherit  the  aspira 
tion  for  better  things  and  the  strength  to  rise  to 
them.  Everybody  seems  to  forget  that,  some 
times — even  you.  And  yet  you  were  right,  and 
I  haven't  a  word  of  blame." 

Nor  had  he,  she  recalled  quickly,  that  night 
after  the  dance,  when,  losing  patience,  she  had 
broken  out  with  her  defence  of  Stallard.  She 
remembered  now  the  start  her  outburst  gave  him, 
the  quick  flush  of  his  face,  his  quick  restraint,, 
and  the  steady  quiet  with  which  he  had  unflinch 
ingly  taken  to  heart  the  bitter  truth  she  gave 
153 


THE   KENTUCKIANS 

him,  and  his  courtesy  to  the  end.  She  was  too 
much  aroused  that  night  to  care  what  pain  she 
caused  him,  but  the  memory  of  it  hurt  her  now. 

1  You  have  been  hard,  but  you  have  not  been 
unjust.  I  have  been  fighting  a  long  time,  and 
you  might  have  given  me  a  little  more  credit  for 
the  fight.  I  think  you  would  have  given  me 
more,  if  you  had  cared  more.  Because  you 
seemed  not  to  care,  I  did  not  ask  it.  It  was  a 
weakness  to  want  it  ...  I  don't  need  it  now  .  .  . 
whatever  happens,  I  shall  keep  my  own  path  just 
the  same  .  .  .  ' 

Anne  hardly  took  in  what  he  was  saying,  his 
voice  was  so  dispassionate.  Marshall  had  always 
been  generous,  winning,  faithful — that  was  what 
she  was  thinking.  Why  had  she  never  loved 
him?  It  was  as  strange  as  that  she  should  not 
know  what  it  was  she  felt  for  Stallard. 

41  For  I'm  done  now,"  repeated  Marshall,  in 
exorably.  "  I'm  going  to  take  my  rights.  I'm 
going  to  leave  you  altogether." 

She  heard  now,  and  she  turned,  half  dazed. 
Marshall  was  steeling  himself  against  his  own 
tenderness  and  going  calmly  on : 

"  When  you  want  me,  if  you  ever  do,  you 
must  send  for  me.  It  is  all,  or  nothing,  I  must 
have.  And  you  must  give  it  unasked  now,  if  you 
should  ever  have  it  to  give.  Yes,"  he  went  on, 
as  though  to  answer  her  unuttered  cry  of  sur- 
154 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

prise  and  indignation  .  .  .   "  I  know  your  pride 
— your   foolish,    steely   pride  —  but   I'm   done 


now." 


Anne's  eyes  were  wide  with  bewilderment. 
Was  he  gone  crazy? 

"  I  have  loved  you  for  ten  years.  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  distrust  of  me,  but  it's  different 
now.  Perhaps  you  don't  yet  trust  me  ?  In  that 
event,  I  don't  care  how  long  a  test  you  put  upon 
me.  Only,  if  by  some  miracle  you  should  want 
me  to  come  back,  you  will  have  no  right  to  say, 
'  Maybe  he  has  ceased  to  care  for  me  now.' 
You  will  have  no  right  to  say  that,  even  to  your 
self — to  think  it.  I  promise,  if  that  ever  hap 
pens,  to  come  and  tell  you  myself.  I  promise 
that.  I  have  done  all  I  can — all  I  should.  The 
rest  is  with  you  now,  wholly." 

Marshall  was  rising.  He  had  not  looked  at 
her  since  he  began  to  talk — he  had  hardly  dared 
for  fear  his  purpose  should  fail  him — and  Anne 
rose  too,  as  though  he  had  bidden  her. 

"  If  you  marry  anybody  else,  I'll  wait  for  him 
to  die.  You  can't  escape  me  in  the  end."  He 
was  smiling  faintly,  but  his  tone  was  almost 
rough,  and  Anne  was  ready  both  to  laugh  and 
to  cry.  "  And  I'll  never  come  till  you  send  for 
me.  We'd  better  go  now,"  he  said,  coolly,  and 
he  started  down,  Anne  following,  quite  helpless, 
without  a  word,  and  with  a  growing  sense  of  de- 

155 


THE    KENTUCKiAXS 

sertion  that  oppressed  her  and  made  her  uncon 
sciously  look  for  Stallard  when  they  emerged 
from  the  undergrowth.  She  was  quite  sure  she 
would  see  him,  and  there  he  was,  walking  rapidly 
past  the  gate,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  see  them,  so 
intent  was  he  on  something  down  the  road.  Her 
dress  caught  on  a  bush,  as  Marshall  pulled  back 
the  gate,  and,  when  he  stooped  to  disentangle 
it,  she  heard  the  mountaineer's  voice  around  a 
clump  of  bushes  below  them.  Marshall  rose 
quickly,  and,  the  next  moment,  both  heard  what 
he  was  saying. 

"  No,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  I'll  give  you  the 
money,  but  you  must  go  back.  I  got  you  out, 
and  I  gave  my  word  you  wouldn't  run  away. 
You've  got  to  go  back." 

A  rough  voice,  strangely  like  his  own  to  the 
girl's  ears,  answered  something  unintelligible. 

"  Then  I'll  take  you  back  myself." 

A  low  oath  of  rage  and  the  shuffling  of  feet 
came  through  the  bushes,  and  Marshall  caught 
Anne's  arm. 

"  You  stay  here,"  he  said,  firmly,  and  he  hur 
ried  through  the  gate  and  around  the  bushes. 
Stallard  was  blocking  the  road  against  a  rough- 
looking  fellow,  who  started  to  run  when  he  saw 
Marshall.  Stallard  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and 
with  the  other  hand  the  fellow  struck  the  moun 
taineer  a  fearful  blow  in  the  face. 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

"  God,  man!  "  shouted  Marshall,  indignantly; 
for,  to  his  amazement,  Stallard  did  not  give  back 
the  blow  but  caught  his  assailant  by  the  other 
wrist. 

"  Come  here  and  help,"  he  said.  "  This  is  an 
escaped  convict." 

Marshall  ran  forward,  and  the  convict  gave 
up  and  dropped  stubbornly  to  the  road,  cough 
ing  hard,  crying  from  rage,  and  cursing  Stallard 
by  his  first  name. 

"  You're  a  fine  brother,  hain't  ye?"  he  re 
peated,  with  savage  malice,  starting  another 
string  of  curses  and  stopping  short,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  something  behind  Stallard.  The  moun 
taineer  wheeled.  Anne  was  standing  there,  her 
face  quite  bloodless,  and  her  eyes  wide  and  full 
upon  his. 

"  You  heard  what  he  said?  " 

It  was  the  mountaineer's  voice  that  broke  at 
last  through  the  awful  silence,  and  in  this  test, 
even,  it  was  steady. 

"  I  know  what  you  thought.  This — this  is 
my  brother." 

Anne's  eyes  turned  slowly  to  the  convict,  who 
lay  at  Stallard's  feet  with  his  sunken  cheek  to 
ward  her ;  and  slowly  the  truth  forced  its  terrible 
way  to  her  brain  and  then  back  again  to  Stal 
lard  in  one  look  of  unspeakable  horror,  unspeak 
able  pity. 

157 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

"  This  was  what  I  had  to  tell  you,'*  he  said, 
quietly;  but  his  face  had  whitened  quickly,  all 
but  the  red  welt  where  the  convict  had  struck. 
"  I  have  nothing  to  ask — now."  Not  in  voice 
or  bearing  was  there  the  slightest  reproach  for 
her. 

"  Get  up,  Bud,"  he  said,  kindly.  Anne  turned 
for  an  instant  to  Marshall,  when  the  convict  rose, 
but  it  was  a  second  rending  of  the  veil  for  him, 
and  he  had  moved  away  that  he  might  not  hear. 
Before  the  two  could  take  a  step,  she  was  at  the 
mountaineer's  side. 

"  I    .    .    .    I'm — going  with  you !  " 

Marshall  heard  that  and,  but  for  his  agitated 
face,  Stallard's  calm  must  have  broken.  For  he 
understood,  even  then,  what  was  beyond  Mar 
shall  to  know,  and  at  that  moment,  perhaps,  be 
yond  Anne.  She  had  struck  into  his  heart  when 
he  was  most  helpless,  and,  to  atone,  she  would 
walk  with  him  through  the  streets  of  the  town, 
back  to  the  very  walls  of  the  prison,  on  through 
life  even,  if  he  asked.  All  this  Stallard  saw — 
and  more — and  he  shook  his  head. 

"  God  bless  you!  "  he  said.  .  ».  t.,  "  Come 
on,  Bud!" 

The  two  brothers  started  down  the  road  to 
ward  town — and  toward  the  shifting  black  col 
umn  of  smoke  that  rose  over  the  gray  prison  be 
yond. 


THE    KENTUCKIANS 

A  year  later  one  of  them,  faithful  to  the  end 
as  the  other's  keeper,  came  to  the  capital  to  de 
liver  his  charge  back  to  the  Keeper  of  the  things 
that  die. 

"  If  that  had  happened  before "  said 

Katherine,  questioningly ;  but  Anne  shook  her 
head. 

"  Not  that — not  that,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  I 
don't  know  ...  I  ...  And  there  she 
stopped  still. 

A  flood  of  development  was  at  high  tide  in  the 
mountains  before  another  year  was  gone,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  the  prophecy  of  Stallard's  first 
speech  at  the  capital  was  coming  true.  His  name 
was  slowly  radiating  from  the  great  capital  then ; 
and  a  year  later  still,  Marshall  rose  as  a  senator 
of  the  State,  and  in  a  fervid  piece  of  oratory,  in 
which  he  was  now  without  a  rival,  spoke  for 
Boone  Stallard  for  the  Senate  of  the  nation. 
Stallard  was  defeated;  but  when  Katherine  Col- 
ton,  who  was  a  guest  at  the  Bruce  homestead, 
told  Anne  of  the  quixotic  fight  that  Marshall,  to 
his  own  hurt,  had  made  for  the  mountaineer, 
Anne  let  her  head  sink  back  out  of  the  light  into 
a  shadow.  Then  Katherine,  who  knew  how 
matters  stood  between  the  two,  spoke  sharply 
and  with  the  authority  that  had  lately  come  to 
her.  As  a  result,  a  night  or  two  afterward,  a 
buggy  creaked  softly  over  the  turf  from  the  pike 
159 


THE    KENTUGKIANS 

gate  and  a  dai^k,  active  figure  climbed  the  stiles. 
Katherine  rose  for  flight. 

"Please.    .    ."  said  Anne,  "  .    .    .  not  yet. " 

From  an  up-stairs  window,  Katherine  saw  the 
moon  rising  on  the  two  at  the  gate,  and  on  the 
gracious  sweep  of  field,  meadow,  and  woodland 
that  had  always  been  and  would  always  be,  per 
haps,  his  home  and  hers.  Lying  all  along  the 
east,  and  hardly  touched  as  yet  by  the  coming 
light,  was  a  bank  of  dark  clouds,  as  mountainlike 
and  full  of  mystery  as  though  they  were  faithful 
shadows  of  the  great  Range  behind  and  beyond 
— and  Katherine's  eyes  filled.  When  she  went 
to  bed  she  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  two  now 
and  then  on  the  porch  below,  until  she  fell  asleep. 
She  felt  a  pair  of  arms  around  her  next,  and  a 
pair  of  lips  at  her  ear. 

"  Katherine!" 

"Yes?"  she  said,  sleepily. 

Anne  kissed  her. 


1 60 


A  KNIGHT  OF  THE  CUMBERLAND 


THE    BLIGHT   IN   THE    HILLS 

HIGH  noon  of  a  crisp  October  day,  sun 
shine  flooding  the  earth  with  the  warmth 
and  light  of  old  wine  and  going  single-file  up 
through  the  jagged  gap  that  the  dripping  of 
water  has  worn  down  through  the  Cumberland 
Mountains  from  crest  to  valley-level,  a  gray 
horse  and  two  big  mules,  a  man  and  two  young 
girls.  On  the  gray  horse,  I  led  the  tortuous 
way.  After  me  came  my  small  sister — and  after 
her  and  like  her,  mule-back,  rode  the  Blight — 
dressed  as  she  would  be  for  a  gallop  in  Central 
Park  or  to  ride  a  hunter  in  a  horse  show. 

I  was  taking  them,  according  to  promise, 
where  the  feet  of  other  women  than  mountain 
eers  had  never  trod — beyond  the  crest  of  the 
Big  Black — to  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland — 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman,  where  is 
yet  pocketed  a  civilization  that,  elsewhere,  is  long 
ago  gone.  This  had  been  a  pet  dream  of  the 
Blight's  for  a  long  time,  and  now  the  dream 
was  coming  true.  The  Blight  was  in  the  hills. 


A    KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

Nobody  ever  went  to  her  mother's  house  with 
out  asking  to  see  her  even  when  she  was  a  little 
thing  with  black  hair,  merry  face  and  black  eyes. 
Both  men  and  women,  with  children  of  their 
own,  have  told  me  that  she  was,  perhaps,  the 
most  fascinating  child  that  ever  lived.  There 
be  some  who  claim  that  she  has  never  changed — 
and  I  am  among  them.  She  began  early,  re 
gardless  of  age,  sex  or  previous  condition  of 
servitude — she  continues  recklessly  as  she  began 
— and  none  makes  complaint.  Thus  was  it  in 
her  own  world — thus  it  was  when  she  came  to 
mine.  On  the  way  down  from  the  North,  the 
conductor's  voice  changed  from  a  command  to 
a  request  when  he  asked  for  her  ticket.  The 
jacketed  lord  of  the  dining-car  saw  her  from 
afar  and  advanced  to  show  her  to  a  seat — that 
she  might  ride  forward,  sit  next  to  a  shaded  win 
dow  and  be  free  from  the  glare  of  the  sun  on 
the  other  side.  Two  porters  made  a  rush  for 
her  bag  when  she  got  off  the  car,  and  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  little  hotel  in  the  little  town  where 
we  had  to  wait  several  hours  for  the  train  into 
the  mountains  gave  her  the  bridal  chamber  for 
an  afternoon  nap.  From  this  little  town  to 
"  The  Gap  "  is  the  worst  sixty-mile  ride,  perhaps, 
in  the  world.  She  sat  in  a  dirty  day-coach;  the 
smoke  rolled  in  at  the  windows  and  doors;  the 
cars  shook  and  swayed  and  lumbered  around 
164 


THE    BLIGHT    IX   THE    HILLS 

curves  and  down  and  up  gorges ;  there  were  about 
her  rough  men,  crying  children,  slatternly  wom 
en,  tobacco  juice,  peanuts,  popcorn  and  apple 
cores,  but  dainty,  serene  and  as  merry  as  ever, 
she  sat  through  that  ride  with  a  radiant  smile, 
her  keen  black  eyes  noting  everything  unlovely 
within  and  the  glory  of  hill,  tree  and  chasm  with 
out.  Next  morning  at  home,  where  we  rise  early, 
no  one  was  allowed  to  waken  her  and  she  had 
breakfast  in  bed — for  the  Blight's  gentle  tyranny 
was  established  on  sight  and  varied  not  at  the 
Gap. 

When  she  went  down  the  street  that  day  every 
body  stared  surreptitiously  and  with  perfect  re 
spect,  as  her  dainty  black-plumed  figure  passed ; 
the  post-office  clerk  could  barely  bring  himself 
to  say  that  there  was  no  letter  for  her.  The 
soda-fountain  boy  nearly  filled  her  glass  with 
syrup  before  he  saw  that  he  was  not  strictly  mind 
ing  his  own  business;  the  clerk,  when  I  bought 
chocolate  for  her,  unblushingly  added  extra 
weight  and,  as  we  went  back,  she  met  them  both 
— Marston,  the  young  engineer  from  the  North, 
crossing  the  street  and,  at  the  same  moment,  a 
drunken  young  tough  with  an  infuriated  face 
reeling  in  a  run  around  the  corner  ahead  of  us 
as  though  he  were  being  pursued.  Now  we  have 
a  volunteer  police  guard  some  forty  strong  at 
the  Gap — and  from  habit,  I  started  for  him, 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

but  the  Blight  caught  my  arm  tight.  The  young 
engineer  in  three  strides  had  reached  the  curb 
stone  and  all  he  sternly  said  was : 

"Here!     Here!"  ' 

The  drunken  youth  wheeled  and  his  right 
hand  shot  toward  his  hip  pocket.  The  engineer 
was  belted  with  a  pistol,  but  with  one  lightning 
movement  and  an  incredibly  long  reach,  his 
right  fist  caught  the  fellow's  jaw  so  that  he 
pitched  backward  and  collapsed  like  an  empty 
bag.  Then  the  engineer  caught  sight  of  the 
Blight's  bewildered  face,  flushed,  gripped  his 
hands  in  front  of  him  and  simply  stared.  At 
last  he  saw  me : 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  how  do  you  do?  "  and  he 
turned  to  his  prisoner,  but  the  panting  sergeant 
and  another  policeman — also  a  volunteer — were 
already  lifting  him  to  his  feet.  I  introduced  the 
boy  and  the  Blight  then,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  saw  the  Blight — shaken.  Round- 
eyed,  she  merely  gazed  at  him. 

"  That  was  pretty  well  done,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  he  was  drunk  and  I  knew  he  would 
be  slow."  Now  something  curious  happened. 
The  dazed  prisoner  was  on  his  feet,  and  his  cap 
tors  were  starting  with  him  to  the  calaboose 
when  he  seemed  suddenly  to  come  to  his  senses. 

"  Jes  wait  a  minute,  will  ye?  "  he  said  quietly, 
and  his  captors,  thinking  perhaps  that  he  wanted 
166 


THE    BLIGHT    IN   THE   HILLS 

to  say  something  to  me,  stopped.  The  moun 
tain  youth  turned  a  strangely  sobered  face  and 
fixed  his  blue  eyes  on  the  engineer  as  though  he 
were  searing  every  feature  of  that  imperturbable 
young  man  in  his  brain  forever.  It  was  not  a 
bad  face,  but  the  avenging  hatred  in  it  was  fear 
ful.  Then  he,  too,  saw  the  Blight,  his  face 
calmed  magically  and  he,  too,  stared  at  her,  and 
turned  away  with  an  oath  checked  at  his  lips. 
We  went  on — the  Blight  thrilled,  for  she  had 
heard  much  of  our  volunteer  force  at  the  Gap 
and  had  seen  something  already.  Presently  I 
looked  back.  Prisoner  and  captors  were  climb 
ing  the  little  hill  toward  the  calaboose  and  the 
mountain  boy  just  then  turned  his  head  and  I 
could  swear  that  his  eyes  sought  not  the  engineer, 
whom  we  left  at  the  corner,  but,  like  the  engi 
neer,  he  was  looking  at  the  Blight.  Whereat  I 
did  not  wonder — particularly  as  to  the  engineer. 
He  had  been  in  the  mountains  for  a  long  time 
and  I  knew  what  this  vision  from  home  meant 
to  him.  He  turned  up  at  the  house  quite  early 
that  night. 

"  Fm  not  on  duty  until  eleven,"  he  said  hesi 
tantly,  "  and  I  thought  Fd " 

"  Come  right  in." 

I  asked  him  a  few  questions  about  business 
and  then  I  left  him  and  the  Blight  alone.  When 
I  came  back  she  had  a  Catling  gun  of  eager 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

questions  ranged  on  him  and — happy  withal — • 
he  was  squirming  no  little.  I  followed  him  to 
the  gate. 

"  Are  you  really  going  over  into  those  God 
forsaken  mountains?  "  he  asked, 

"  I  thought  I  would." 

"  And  you  are  going  to  take  her?  " 

"  And  my  sister." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon."     He  strode  away. 

"  Coming  up  by  the  mines?  "  he  called  back. 

"  Perhaps — will  you  show  us  around?  n 

"  I  guess  I  will,"  he  said  emphatically,  and  he 
went  on  to  risk  his  neck  on  a  ten-mile  ride  along 
a  mountain  road  in  the  dark. 

"  I  like  a  man,"  said  the  Blight.     "  I  like  a 


man" 


Of  course  the  Blight  must  see  everything,  so 
she  insisted  on  going  to  the  police  court  next 
morning  for  the  trial  of  the  mountain  boy.  The 
boy  was  in  the  witness  chair  when  we  got  there, 
and  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd  was  his  counsel.  He 
had  volunteered  to  defend  the  prisoner,  I  was 
soon  told,  and  then  I  understood.  The  Novem 
ber  election  was  not  far  off  and  the  Hon.  Samuel 
Budd  was  candidate  for  legislature.  More  even, 
the  boy's  father  was  a  warm  supporter  of  Mr. 
Budd  and  the  boy  himself  might  perhaps  render 
good  service  in  the  cause  when  the  time  came — 
as  indeed  he  did.  On  one  of  the  front  chairs 
168 


THE    BLIGHT    IN   THE   HILLS 

sat  the  young  engineer  and  it  was  a  question 
whether  he  or  the  prisoner  saw  the  Blight's  black 
plumes  first.  The  eyes  of  both  flashed  toward 
her  simultaneously,  the  engineer  colored  percep 
tibly  and  the  mountain  boy  stopped  short  in 
speech  and  his  pallid  face  flushed  with  unmis 
takable  shame.  Then  he  went  on :  "  He  had 
liquered  up,"  he  said,  "  and  had  got  tight  afore 
he  knowed  it  and  he  didn't  mean  no  harm  and 
had  never  been  arrested  afore  in  his  whole  life." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  drunk  before?  "  asked 
the  prosecuting  attorney  severely.  The  lad 
looked  surprised. 

"  Co'se  I  have,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  agin — 
leastwise  not  in  this  here  town."  There  was  a 
general  laugh  at  this  and  the  aged  mayor  rapped 
loudly. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  attorney. 

The  lad  stepped  down,  hitched  his  chair 
slightly  so  that  his  back  was  to  the  Blight,  sank 
down  in  it  until  his  head  rested  on  the  back  of 
the  chair  and  crossed  his  legs.  The  Hon.  Sam 
uel  Budd  arose  and  the  Blight  looked  at  him 
with  wonder.  His  long  yellow  hair  was  parted 
in  the  middle  and  brushed  with  plaster-like  pre 
cision  behind  two  enormous  ears,  he  wore  spec 
tacles,  gold-rimmed  and  with  great  staring 
lenses,  and  his  face  was  smooth  and  ageless.  He 
caressed  his  chin  ruminatingly  and  rolled  his  lips 
169 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBEELAND 

until  they  settled  into  a  fine  resultant  of  wisdom, 
patience,  toleration  and  firmness.  His  manner 
was  profound  and  his  voice  oily  and  soothing. 

"  May  it  please  your  Honor — my  young 
friend  frankly  pleads  guilty."  He  paused  as 
though  the  majesty  of  the  law  could  ask  no 
more.  "  He  is  a  young  man  of  naturally  high 
and  somewhat — naturally,  too,  no  doubt — bibu 
lous  spirits.  Homoeopathically — if  inversely — 
the  result  was  logical.  In  the  untrammelled  life 
of  the  liberty-breathing  mountains,  where  the 
stern  spirit  of  law  and  order,  of  which  your 
Honor  is  the  august  symbol,  does  not  prevail 
as  it  does  here — thanks  to  your  Honor's  wise 
and  just  dispensations — the  lad  has,  I  may  say, 
naturally  acquired  a  certain  recklessness  of  mood 
— indulgence  which,  however  easily  condoned 
there,  must  here  be  sternly  rebuked.  At  the 
same  time,  he  knew  not  the  conditions  here,  he 
became  exhilarated  without  malice,  prepensey  or 
even,  I  may  say,  consciousness.  He  would  not 
have  done  as  he  has,  if  he  had  known  what  he 
knows  now,  and,  knowing,  he  will  not  repeat  the 
offence.  I  need  say  no  more.  I  plead  simply 
that  your  Honor  will  temper  the  justice  that  is 
only  yours  with  the  mercy  that  is  yours — only." 

His  Honor  was  visibly  affected  and  to  cover  it 
— his  methods  being  informal — he  said  with 
sharp  irrelevancy : 

170 


THE    BLIGHT   IN    THE    HILLS 

"  Who  bailed  this  young  feller  out  last 
night?  "  The  sergeant  spoke: 

"  Why,  Mr.  Marston  thar " — with  out 
stretched  finger  toward  the  young  engineer. 
The  Blight's  black  eyes  leaped  with  exultant 
appreciation  and  the  engineer  turned  crimson. 
His  Honor  rolled  his  quid  around  in  his  mouth 
once,  and  peered  over  his  glasses: 

"  I  fine  this  young  feller  two  dollars  and 
costs."  The  young  fellow  had  turned  slowly  in 
his  chair  and  his  blue  eyes  blazed  at  the  engineer 
with  unappeasable  hatred.  I  doubt  if  he  had 
heard  his  Honor's  voice. 

"  I  want  ye  to  know  that  I'm  obleeged  to  ye 
an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  fergit  it ;  but  if  I'd  'a'  known 
hit  was  you  I'd  'a'  stayed  in  jail  an'  seen  you  in 
hell  afore  I'd  'a'  been  bounden  to  ye." 

"  Ten  dollars  fer  contempt  of  count."  The 
boy  was  hot  now. 

"  Oh,  fine  and  be "  The  Hon.  Samuel 

Budd  had  him  by  the  shoulder,  the  boy  swallowed 
his  voice  and  his  starting  tears  of  rage,  and  after 
a  whisper  to  his  Honor,  the  Hon.  Samuel  led 
him  out.  Outside,  the  engineer  laughed  to  the 
Blight: 

"Pretty  peppery,  isn't  he?"  but  the  Blight 

said  nothing,  and  later  we  saw  the  youth  on  a 

gray  horse  crossing  the  bridge  and  conducted  by 

the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd,  who  stopped  and  waved 

171 


A    KOTGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

him  toward  the  mountains.  The  boy  went  on 
and  across  the  plateau,  the  gray  Gap  swallowed 
him. 

That  night,  at  the  post-office,  the  Hon.  Sam 
plucked  me  aside  by  the  sleeve. 

"  I  know  Marston  is  agin  me  in  this  race — but 
I'll  do  him  a  good  turn  just  the  same.  You  tell 
him  to  watch  out  for  that  young  fellow.  He's 
all  right  when  he's  sober,  but  when  he's  drunk — 
well,  over  in  Kentucky,  they  call  him  the  Wild 
Dog." 

Several  days  later  we  started  out  through  that 
same  Gap.  The  glum  stableman  looked  at  the 
Blight's  girths  three  times,  and  with  my  own 
eyes  starting  and  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  I  saw 
her  pass  behind  her  sixteen-hand-high  mule  and 
give  him  a  friendly  tap  on  the  rump  as  she  went 
by.  The  beast  gave  an  appreciative  flop  of  one 
ear  and  that  was  all.  Had  I  done  that,  any  fur 
ther  benefit  to  me  or  mine  would  be  incorporated 
in  the  terms  of  an  insurance  policy.  So,  stating 
this,  I  believe  I  state  the  limit  and  can  now  go 
on  to  say  at  last  that  it  was  because  she  seemed 
to  be  loved  by  man  and  brute  alike  that  a  big 
man  of  her  own  town,  whose  body,  big  as  it  was, 
was  yet  too  small  for  his  heart  and  from  whose 
brain  things  went  off  at  queer  angles,  always 
christened  her  perversely  as — "  The  Blight." 
172 


II 


ON   THE    WILD   DOG  S   TRAIL 

SO  up  we  went  past  Bee  Rock,  Preacher's 
Creek  and  Little  Looney,  past  the  mines 
where  high  on  a  "  tipple  "  stood  the  young  engi 
neer  looking  down  at  us,  and  looking  after  the 
Blight  as  we  passed  on  into  a  dim,  rocky  avenue 
walled  on  each  side  with  rhododendrons.  I 
waved  at  him  and  shook  my  head — we  would  see 
him  coming  back.  Beyond  a  deserted  log-cabin 
we  turned  up  a  spur  of  the  mountain.  Around  a 
clump  of  bushes  we  came  on  a  gray-bearded 
mountaineer  holding  his  horse  by  the  bridle  and 
from  a  covert  high  above  two  more  men  ap 
peared  with  Winchesters.  The  Blight  breathed 
forth  an  awed  whisper: 

"  Are  they  moonshiners?  " 

I  nodded  sagely,  "  Most  likely,"  and  the 
Blight  was  thrilled.  They  might  have  been 
squirrel-hunters  most  innocent,  but  the  Blight 
had  heard  much  talk  of  moonshine  stills  and 
mountain  feuds  and  the  men  who  run  them  and 
I  took,  the  risk  of  denying  her  nothing.  Up  and 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

up  we  went,  those  two  mules  swaying  from  side 
to  side  with  a  motion  little  short  of  elephantine 
and,  by  and  by,  the  Blight  called  out : 

"  You  ride  ahead  and  don't  you  dare  look 
back." 

Accustomed  to  obeying  the  Blight's  orders,  I 
rode  ahead  with  eyes  to  the  front.  Presently,  a 
shriek  made  me  turn  suddenly.  It  was  nothing 
— my  little  sister's  mule  had  gone  near  a  steep 
cliff — perilously  near,  as  its  rider  thought,  but  I 
saw  why  I  must  not  look  back;  those  two  little 
girls  were  riding  astride  on  side-saddles,  the 
booted  little  right  boot  of  each  dangling  stirrup- 
less — a  posture  quite  decorous  but  ludicrous. 

"  Let  us  know  if  anybody  comes,"  they  cried. 
A  mountaineer  descended  into  sight  around  a 
loop  of  the  path  above. 

"  Change  cars !  "  I  shouted. 

They  changed  and,  passing,  were  grave,  de 
mure — then  they  changed  again,  and  thus  we 
climbed. 

Such  a  glory  as  was  below,  around  and  above 
us;  the  air  like  champagne;  the  sunlight  rich  and 
pouring  like  a  flood  on  the  gold  that  the  beeches 
had  strewn  in  the  path,  on  the  gold  that  the  pop 
lars  still  shook  high  above  and  shimmering  on 
the  royal  scarlet  of  the  maple  and  the  sombre 
russet  of  the  oak.  From  far  below  us  to  far 
above  us  a  deep,  curving  ravine  was  slashed  into 
174 


ON    THE    WILD    DOG'S    TRAIL 

the  mountain-side  as  by  one  stroke  of  a  gigantic 
scimitar.  The  darkness  deep  down  was  lighted 
up  with  cool  green,  interfused  with  liquid  gold. 
Russet  and  yellow  splashed  the  mountain-sides 
beyond  and  high  up  the  maples  were  in  a  shaking 
blaze.  The  Blight's  swift  eyes  took  all  in  and 
with  indrawn  breath  she  drank  it  all  deep  down. 
An  hour  by  sun  we  were  near  the  top,  which 
was  bared  of  trees  and  turned  into  rich  farm 
land  covered  with  blue-grass.  Along  these  up 
land  pastures,  dotted  with  grazing  cattle,  and 
across  them  we  rode  toward  the  mountain  wil 
dernesses  on  the  other  side,  down  into  which  a 
zigzag  path  wriggles  along  the  steep  front  of 
Benham's  spur.  At  the  edge  of  the  steep  was 
a  cabin  and  a  bushy-bearded  mountaineer,  who 
looked  like  a  brigand,  answered  my  hail.  He 
"  mought  "  keep  us  all  night,  but  he'd  "  ruther 
not,  as  we  could  git  a  place  to  stay  down  the 
spur."  Could  we  get  down  before  dark?  The 
mountaineer  lifted  his  eyes  to  where  the  sun  was 
breaking  the  horizon  of  the  west  into  streaks  and 
splashes  of  yellow  and  crimson. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can  git  thar  afore  dark." 
Now  I  knew  that  the  mountaineer's  idea  of 
distance  is  vague — but  he  knows  how  long  it 
takes  to  get  from  one  place  to  another.  So  we 
started  down — dropping  at  once  into  thick,  dark 
woods,  and  as  we  went  looping  down,  the  deeper 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

was  the  gloom.  That  sun  had  suddenly  severed 
all  connection  with  the  laws  of  gravity  and  sunk, 
and  it  was  all  the  darker  because  the  stars  were 
not  out.  The  path  was  steep  and  coiled  down 
ward  like  a  wounded  snake.  In  one  place  a  tree 
had  fallen  across  it,  and  to  reach  the  next  coil 
of  the  path  below  was  dangerous.  So  I  had  the 
girls  dismount  and  I  led  the  gray  horse  down 
on  his  haunches.  The  mules  refused  to  follow, 
which  was  rather  unusual.  I  went  back  and 
from  a  safe  distance  in  the  rear  I  belabored  them 
down.  They  cared  neither  for  gray  horse  nor 
crooked  path,  but  turned  of  their  own  devilish 
wills  along  the  bushy  mountain-side.  As  I  ran 
after  them  the  gray  horse  started  calmly  on 
down  and  those  two  girls  shrieked  with  laughter 
— they  knew  no  better.  First  one  way  and  then 
the  other  down  the  mountain  went  those  mules, 
with  me  after  them,  through  thick  bushes,  over 
logs,  stumps  and  bowlders  and  holes — crossing 
the  path  a  dozen  times.  What  that  path  was 
there  for  never  occurred  to  those  long-eared  half 
asses,  whole  fools,  and  by  and  by,  when  the  girls 
tried  to  shoo  them  down  they  clambered  around 
and  above  them  and  struck  the  path  back  up  the 
mountain.  The  horse  had  gone  down  one  way, 
the  mules  up  the  other,  and  there  was  no  health 
in  anything.  The  girls  could  not  go  up — so 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  down,  which, 
176 


ON   THE    WILD    DOG'S    TRAIL 

hard  as  it  was,  was  easier  than  going  up.  The 
path  was  not  visible  now.  Once  in  a  while  I 
would  stumble  from  it  and  crash  through  the 
bushes  to  the  next  coil  below.  Finally  I  went 
down,  sliding  one  foot  ahead  all  the  time — 
knowing  that  when  leaves  rustled  under  that 
foot  I  was  on  the  point  of  going  astray.  Some 
times  I  had  to  light  a  match  to  make  sure  of  the 
way,  and  thus  the  ridiculous  descent  was  made 
with  those  girls  in  high  spirits  behind.  Indeed, 
the  darker,  rockier,  steeper  it  got,  the  more  they 
shrieked  from  pure  joy — but  I  was  anything  than 
happy.  It  was  dangerous.  I  didn't  know  the 
cliffs  and  high  rocks  we  might  skirt  and  an  un 
lucky  guidance  might  land  us  in  the  creek-bed 
far  down.  But  the  blessed  stars  came  out,  the 
moon  peered  over  a  farther  mountain  and  on  the 
last  spur  there  was  the  gray  horse  browsing  in 
the  path — and  the  sound  of  running  water  not 
far  below.  Fortunately  on  the  gray  horse  were 
the  saddle-bags  of  the  chattering  infants  who 
thought  the  whole  thing  a  mighty  lark.  We 
reached  the  running  water,  struck  a  flock  of 
geese  and  knew,  in  consequence,  that  humanity 
was  somewhere  near.  A  few  turns  of  the  creek 
and  a  beacon  light  shone  below.  The  pales  of  a 
picket  fence,  the  cheering  outlines  of  a  log-cabin 
came  in  view  and  at  a  peaked  gate  I  shouted : 
"Hello!" 

177 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

You  enter  no  mountaineer's  yard  without  that 
announcing  cry.  It  was  mediaeval,  the  Blight 
said,  positively — two  lorn  damsels,  a  benighted 
knight  partially  stripped  of  his  armor  by  bush 
and  sharp-edged  rock,  a  gray  palfrey  (she  didn't 
mention  the  impatient  asses  that  had  turned 
homeward)  and  she  wished  I  had  a  horn  to  wind. 
I  wanted  a  "  horn  "  badly  enough — but  it  was 
not  the  kind  men  wind.  By  and  by  we  got  a 
response : 

"  Hello!  "  was  the  answer,  as  an  opened  door 
let  out  into  the  yard  a  broad  band  of  light. 
Could  we  stay  all  night?  The  voice  replied 
that  the  owner  would  see  "  Pap."  "  Pap " 
seemed  willing,  and  the  boy  opened  the  gate  and 
into  the  house  went  the  Blight  and  the  little  sis 
ter.  Shortly,  I  followed. 

There,  all  in  one  room,  lighted  by  a  huge 
wood-fire,  rafters  above,  puncheon  floor  beneath 
— cane-bottomed  chairs  and  two  beds  the  only 
furniture — "  pap,"  barefooted,  the  old  mother 
in  the  chimney-corner  with  a  pipe,  strings  of  red 
pepper-pods,  beans  and  herbs  hanging  around 
and  above,  a  married  daughter  with  a  child  at 
her  breast,  two  or  three  children  with  yellow  hair 
and  bare  feet — all  looking  with  all  their  eyes  at 
the  two  visitors  who  had  dropped  upon  them 
from  another  world.  The  Blight's  eyes  were 
brighter  than  usual — that  was  the  only  sign  she 


ON    THE    WILD    DOG'S    TRAIL 

gave  that  she  was  not  in  her  own  drawing-room. 
Apparently  she  saw  nothing  strange  or  unusual 
even,  but  there  was  really  nothing  that  she  did 
not  see  or  hear  and  absorb,  as  few  others  than 
the  Blight  can. 

Straightway,  the  old  woman  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  her  pipe. 

"  I  reckon  you  hain't  had  nothin'  to  eat,"  she 
said,  and  disappeared.  The  old  man  asked  ques 
tions,  the  young  mother  rocked  her  baby  on  her 
knees,  the  children  got  less  shy  and  drew  near 
the  fireplace,  the  Blight  and  the  little  sister  ex 
changed  a  furtive  smile,  and  the  contrast  of  the 
extremes  in  American  civilization,  as  shown  in 
that  little  cabin,  interested  me  mightily. 

"  Yer  snack's  ready,"  said  the  old  woman. 
The  old  man  carried  the  chairs  into  the  kitchen, 
and  when  I  followed  the  girls  were  seated.  The 
chairs  were  so  low  that  their  chins  came  barely 
over  their  plates,  and  demure  and  serious  as  they 
were  they  surely  looked  most  comical.  There 
was  the  usual  bacon  and  corn-bread  and  potatoes 
and  sour  milk,  and  the  two  girls  struggled  with 
the  rude  fare  nobly. 

After  supper  I  joined  the  old  man  and  the  old 
woman  with  a  pipe — exchanging  my  tobacco  for 
their  long  green  with  more  satisfaction  probably 
to  me  than  to  them,  for  the  long  green  was  good, 
and  strong  and  fragrant. 
179 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE   CUMBEKLAND 

The  old  woman  asked  the  Blight  and  the  little 
sister  many  questions  and  they,  in  turn,  showed 
great  interest  in  the  baby  in  arms,  whereat  the 
eighteen-year-old  mother  blushed  and  looked 
greatly  pleased. 

1  You  got  mighty  purty  black  eyes,"  said  the 
old  woman  to  the  Blight,  and  not  to  slight  the 
little  sister  she  added,  "  An'  you  got  mighty  purty 
teeth." 

The  Blight  showed  hers  in  a  radiant  smile  and 
the  old  woman  turned  back  to  her. 

"  Oh,  youVe  got  both,"  she  said  and  she  shook 
her  head,  as  though  she  were  thinking  of  the 
damage  they  had  done.  It  was  my  time  now — 
to  ask  questions. 

They  didn't  have  many  amusements  on  that 
creek,  I  discovered — and  no  dances.  Sometimes 
the  boys  went  'coon-hunting  and  there  were  corn- 
shuckings,  house-raisings  and  quilting-parties. 

"  Does  anybody  round  here  play  the  banjo  ?  " 

"  None  o'  my  boys,"  said  the  old  wom 
an;  "but  Tom  Green's  son  down  the  creek — 
he  follers  pickin'  the  banjo  a  leetle."  "  Fol- 
lers  pickin'  " — the  Blight  did  not  miss  that 
phrase. 

"  What  do  you  foller  fer  a  livin'?  "  the  old 
man  asked  me  suddenly. 

"  I  write  for  a  living."     He  thought  a  while. 

"  Well,  it  must  be  purty  fine  to  have  a  good 
180 


ON  THE  WILD  DOG'S  TRAIL 

handwrite."     This  nearly  dissolved  the  Blight 
and  the  little  sister,  but  they  held  on  heroically. 

"Is  there  much  fighting  around  here?"  I 
asked  presently. 

"  Not  much  'cept  when  one  young  feller  up 
the  river  gets  to  tearin'  up  things.  I  heerd  as 
how  he  was  over  to  the  Gap  last  week — raisin' 
hell.  He  comes  by  here  on  his  way  home." 
The  Blight's  eyes  opened  wide — apparently  we 
were  on  his  trail.  It  is  not  wise  for  a  member 
of  the  police  guard  at  the  Gap  to  show  too  much 
curiosity  about  the  lawless  ones  of  the  hills,  and 
I  asked  no  questions. 

"  They  calls  him  the  Wild  Dog  over  here," 
he  added,  and  then  he  yawned  cavernously. 

I  looked  around  with  divining  eye  for  the 
sleeping  arrangements  soon  to  come,  which  some 
times  are  embarrassing  to  "  furriners  "  who  are 
unable  to  grasp  at  once  the  primitive  unconscious 
ness  of  the  mountaineers  and,  in  consequence,  ac 
cept  a  point  of  view  natural  to  them  because 
enforced  by  architectural  limitations  and  a  hospi 
tality  that  turns  no  one  seeking  shelter  from 
any  door.  They  were,  however,  better  prepared 
than  I  had  hoped  for.  They  had  a  spare  room 
on  the  porch  and  just  outside  the  door,  and  when 
the  old  woman  led  the  two  girls  to  it,  I  followed 
with  their  saddle-bags.  The  room  was  about 
seven  feet  by  six  and  was  windowless. 
181 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

"  You'd  better  leave  your  door  open  a  little," 
I  said,  "  or  you'll  smother  in  there." 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  hit's  all  right 
to  leave  the  door  open.  Nothin's  goin'  ter 
bother  ye,  but  one  o'  my  sons  is  out  a  'coon-hun- 
tin'  and  he  mought  come  in,  not  knowin'  you're 
thar.  But  you  jes'  holler  an'  he'll  move  on." 
She  meant  precisely  what  she  said  and  saw  no 
humor  at  all  in  such  a  possibility — but  when  the 
door  closed,  I  could  hear  those  girls  stifling 
shrieks  of  laughter. 

Literally,  that  night,  I  was  a  member  of  the 
family.  I  had  a  bed  to  myself  (the  following 
night  I  was  not  so  fortunate) — in  one  corner; 
behind  the  head  of  mine  the  old  woman,  the 
daughter-in-law  and  the  baby  had  another  in  the 
other  corner,  and  the  old  man  with  the  two  boys 
spread  a  pallet  on  the  floor.  That  is  the  invar 
iable  rule  of  courtesy  with  the  mountaineer,  to 
give  his  bed  to  the  stranger  and  take  to  the  floor 
himself,  and,  in  passing,  let  me  say  that  never,  in 
a  long  experience,  have  I  seen  the  slightest  con 
sciousness — much  less  immodesty — in  a  moun 
tain  cabin  in  my  life.  The  same  attitude  on  the 
part  of  the  visitors  is  taken  for  granted — any 
other  indeed  holds  mortal  possibilities  of  of 
fence — so  that  if  the  visitor  has  common  sense, 
all  embarrassment  passes  at  once.  The  door 
was  closed,  the  fire  blazed  on  uncovered,  the 
182 


ON    THE    WILD    DOG'S    TKAIL 

smothered  talk  and  laughter  of  the  two  girls 
ceased,  the  'coon-hunter  came  not  and  the  night 
passed  in  peace. 

It  must  have  been  near  daybreak  that  I  was 
aroused  by  the  old  man  leaving  the  cabin  and  I 
heard  voices  and  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  out 
side.  When  he  came  back  he  was  grinning. 

"  Hit's  your  mules." 

"Who  found  them?" 

"  The  Wild  Dog  had  'em,"  he  said. 


183 


Ill 


THE      AURICULAR      TALENT       OF      THE      HON. 
SAMUEL    BUDD 

BEHIND  us  came  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd. 
Just  when  the  sun  was  slitting  the  east  with 
a  long  streak  of  fire,  the  Hon.  Samuel  was,  with 
the  jocund  day,  standing  tiptoe  in  his  stirrups 
on  the  misty  mountain-top  and  peering  into  the 
ravine  down  which  we  had  slid  the  night  before, 
and  he  grumbled  no  little  when  he  saw  that  he, 
too,  must  get  off  his  horse  and  slide  down.  The 
Hon.  Samuel  was  ambitious,  Southern,  and  a 
lawyer.  Without  saying,  it  goes  that  he  was 
also  a  politician.  He  was  not  a  native  of  the 
mountains,  but  he  had  cast  his  fortunes  in  the 
highlands,  and  he  was  taking  the  first  step  that 
he  hoped  would,  before  many  years,  land  him 
in  the  National  Capitol.  He  really  knew  little 
about  the  mountaineers,  even  now,  and  he  had 
never  been  among  his  constituents  on  Devil's 
Fork,  where  he  was  bound  now.  The  campaign 
had  so  far  been  full  of  humor  and  full  of  trials 
— not  the  least  of  which  sprang  from  the  fact 


THE    AURICULAR   TALENT 

that  it  was  sorghum  time.  Everybody  through 
the  mountains  was  making  sorghum,  and  every 
mountain  child  was  eating  molasses. 

Now,  as  the  world  knows,  the  straightest  way 
to  the  heart  of  the  honest  voter  is  through  the 
women  of  the  land,  and  the  straightest  way  to 
the  heart  of  the  women  is  through  the  children 
of  the  land;  and  one  method  of  winning  both, 
with  rural  politicians,  is  to  kiss  the  babies  wide 
and  far.  So  as  each  infant,  at  sorghum  time, 
has  a  circle  of  green-brown  stickiness  about  his 
chubby  lips,  and  as  the  Hon.  Sam  was  averse  to 
"  long  sweetenin'  "  even  in  his  coffee,  this  par 
ticular  political  device  just  now  was  no  small  trial 
to  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd.  But  in  the  language 
of  one  of  his  firmest  supporters — Uncle  Tommie 
Hendricks : 

"  The  Hon.  Sam  done  his  duty,  and  he  done 
it  damn  well." 

The  issue  at  stake  was  the  site  of  the  new 
Court-House — two  localities  claiming  the  right 
undisputed,  because  they  were  the  only  two  places 
in  the  county  where  there  was  enough  level  land 
for  the  Court-House  to  stand  on.  Let  no  man 
think  this  a  trivial  issue.  There  had  been  a 
similar  one  over  on  the  Virginia  side  once,  and 
the  opposing  factions  agreed  to  decide  the  ques 
tion  by  the  ancient  wager  of  battle,  fist  and  skull 
— two  hundred  men  on  each  side — and  the  worn- 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

en  of  the  county  with  difficulty  prevented  the 
fight.  Just  now,  Mr.  Budd  was  on  his  way  to 
"  The  Pocket  " — the  voting  place  of  one  faction 
— where  he  had  never  been,  where  the  hostility 
against  him  was  most  bitter,  and,  that  day,  he 
knew  he  was  "  up  against  "  Waterloo,  the  cross 
ing  of  the  Rubicon,  holding  the  pass  at  Ther 
mopylae,  or  any  other  historical  crisis  in  the  his 
tory  of  man. 

I  was  saddling  the  mules  when  the  cackling 
of  geese  in  the  creek  announced  the  coming  of 
the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd,  coming  with  his  chin 
on  his  breast — deep  in  thought.  Still  his  eyes 
beamed  cheerily,  he  lifted  his  slouched  hat  gal 
lantly  to  the  Blight  and  the  little  sister,  and  he 
would  wait  for  us  to  jog  along  with  him.  I 
told  him  of  our  troubles,  meanwhile.  The  Wild 
Dog  had  restored  our  mules — and  the  Hon. 
Sam  beamed: 

"  He's  a  wonder — where  is  he?  " 

"  He  never  waited — even  for  thanks." 

Again  the  Hon.  Sam  beamed : 

"  Ah !  just  like  him.  He's  gone  ahead  to  help 
me." 

"Well,  how  did  he  happen  to  be  here?"  I 
asked. 

"  He's  everywhere,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam. 

"  How  did  he  know  the  mules  were  ours?  " 

"  Easy.     That  boy  knows  everything." 
186 


THE    AURICULAR   TALENT 

"  Well,  why  did  he  bring  them  back  and  then 
leave  so  mysteriously?  " 

The  Hon.  Sam  silently  pointed  a  finger  at  the 
laughing  Blight  ahead,  and  I  looked  incredulous. 

"  Just  the  same,  that's  another  reason  I  told 
you  to  warn  Marston.  He's  already  got  it  in 
his  head  that  Marston  is  his  rival." 

"  Pshaw!  "  I  said — for  it  was  too  ridiculous. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam  placidly. 

"  Then  why  doesn't  fye  want  to  see  her?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  he  ain't  watchin*  her 
now,  for  all  we  know?  Mark  me,"  he  added, 
"  you  won't  see  him  at  the  speakin',  but  I'll  bet 
fruit  cake  agin  gingerbread  he'll  be  somewhere 
around." 

So  we  went  on,  the  two  girls  leading  the  way 
and  the  Hon.  Sam  now  telling  his  political 
troubles  to  me.  Half  a  mile  down  the  road,  a 
solitary  horseman  stood  waiting,  and  Mr.  Budd 
gave  a  low  whistle. 

"  One  o'  my  rivals,"  he  said,  from  the  corner 
of  his  mouth. 

"  Mornin',"  said  the  horseman;  "  lemme  see 
you  a  minute." 

He  made  a  movement  to  draw  aside,  but  the 
Hon.  Samuel  made  a  counter-gesture  of  dissent. 

"  This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said 
firmly,  but  with  great  courtesy,  "  and  he  can 
hear  what  you  have  to  say  to  me." 


A    KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

The  mountaineer  rubbed  one  huge  hand  over 
his  stubby  chin,  threw  one  of  his  long  legs  over 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  and  dangled  a  heavy 
cowhide  shoe  to  and  fro. 

"  Would  you  mind  tellin'  me  whut  pay  a  mem 
ber  of  the  House  of  Legislator'  gits  a  day?  " 

The  Hon.  Sam  looked  surprised. 

"  I  think  about  two  dollars  and  a  half." 

"An'  his  meals?" 

"  No !  "  laughed  Mr.  Budd. 

"  Well,  look-ee  here,  stranger.  I'm  a  pore 
man  an'  I've  got  a  mortgage  on  my  farm.  That 
money  don't  mean  nothin'  to  you — but  if  you'll 
draw  out  now  an*  I  win,  I'll  tell  ye  whut  I'll  do." 
He  paused  as  though  to  make  sure  that  the  sacri 
fice  was  possible.  "  I'll  just  give  ye  half  of  that 
two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day,  as  shore  as  you're 
a-settin'  on  that  boss,  and  you  won't  hav'  to  hit 
a  durn  lick  to  earn  it." 

I  had  not  the  heart  to  smile — nor  did  the 
Hon.  Samuel — so  artless  and  simple  was  the 
man  and  so  pathetic  his  appeal. 

"  You  see — you'll  divide  my  vote,  an'  ef  we 
both  run,  ole  Josh  Barton'll  git  it  shore.  Ef 
you  git  out  o'  the  way,  I  can  lick  him  easy." 

Mr.  Budd's  answer  was  kind,  instructive,  and 
uplifted. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can 
not  possibly  accede  to  your  request  for  the  fol- 
iSS 


THE    AURICULAR   TALENT 

lowing  reasons :  First,  it  would  not  be  fair  to  my 
constituents ;  secondly,  it  would  hardly  be  seem 
ing  to  barter  the  noble  gift  of  the  people  to 
which  we  both  aspire;  thirdly,  you  might  lose 
with  me  out  of  the  way;  and  fourthly,  I'm  going 
to  win  whether  you  are  in  the  way  or  not." 

The  horseman  slowly  collapsed  while  the  Hon. 
Samuel  was  talking,  and  now  he  threw  the  leg 
back,  kicked  for  his  stirrup  twice,  spat  once,  and 
turned  his  horse's  head. 

"  I  reckon  you  will,  stranger,"  he  said  sadly, 
"  with  that  gift  o'  gab  o'  yourn."  He  turned 
without  another  word  or  nod  of  good-by  and 
started  back  up  the  creek  whence  he  had  come. 

"  One  gone,"  said  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd 
grimly,  "  and  I  swear  I'm  right  sorry  for  him." 
And  so  was  I. 

An  hour  later  we  struck  the  river,  and  another 
hour  upstream  brought  us  to  where  the  contest 
of  tongues  was  to  come  about.  No  sylvan  dell 
in  Arcady  could  have  been  lovelier  than  the  spot. 
Above  the  road,  a  big  spring  poured  a  clear  little 
stream  over  shining  pebbles  into  the  river ;  above 
it  the  bushes  hung  thick  with  autumn  leaves,  and 
above  them  stood  yellow  beeches  like  pillars  of 
pale  fire.  On  both  sides  of  the  road  sat  and 
squatted  the  honest  voters,  sour-looking,  dis 
gruntled  —  a  distinctly  hostile  crowd.  The 
Blight  and  my  little  sister  drew  great  and  curi- 
189 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

ous  attention  as  they  sat  on  a  bowlder  above  the 
spring  while  I  went  with  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd 
under  the  guidance  of  Uncle  Tommie  Hendricks, 
who  introduced  him  right  and  left.  The  Hon. 
Samuel  was  cheery,  but  he  was  plainly  nervous. 
There  were  two  lanky  youths  whose  names,  oddly 
enough,  were  Budd.  As  they  gave  him  their 
huge  paws  in  lifeless  fashion,  the  Hon.  Samuel 
slapped  one  on  the  shoulder,  with  the  true  de 
mocracy  of  the  politician,  and  said  jocosely: 

'*  Well,  we  Budds  may  not  be  what  you  call 
great  people,  but,  thank  God,  none  of  us  have 
ever  been  in  the  penitentiary, "  and  he  laughed 
loudly,  thinking  that  he  had  scored  a  great  and 
jolly  point.  The  two  young  men  looked  exceed 
ingly  grave  and  Uncle  Tommie  panic-stricken. 
He  plucked  the  Hon.  Sam  by  the  sleeve  and  led 
him  aside: 

"  I  reckon  you  made  a  leetle  mistake  thar. 
Them  two  fellers'  daddy  died  in  the  penitentiary 
last  spring."  The  Hon.  Sam  whistled  mourn 
fully,  but  he  looked  game  enough  when  his  op 
ponent  rose  to  speak — Uncle  Josh  Barton,  who 
had  short,  thick,  upright  hair,  little,  sharp  eyes, 
and  a  rasping  voice.  Uncle  Josh  wasted  no 
time: 

"  Feller-citizens,"  he  shouted,  "  this  man  is  a 
lawyer — he's  a  corporation  lawyer  " ;  the  fearful 
name — pronounced  "  lie-yer  " — rang  through 
190 


THE    AURICULAR    TALENT 

the  crowd  like  a  trumpet,  and  like  lightning  the 
Hon.  Sam  was  on  his  feet. 

"  The  man  who  says  that  is  a  liar,"  he  said 
calmly,  "  and  I  demand  your  authority  for  the 
statement.  If  you  won't  give  it — I  shall  hold 
you  personally  responsible,  sir." 

It  was  a  strike  home,  and  under  the  flashing 
eyes  that  stared  unwaveringly  through  the  big 
goggles,  Uncle  Josh  halted  and  stammered  and 
admitted  that  he  might  have  been  misinformed. 

"  Then  I  advise  you  to  be  more  careful,"  cau 
tioned  the  Hon.  Samuel  sharply. 

"  Feller-citizens,"  said  Uncle  Josh,  "  if  he 
ain't  a  corporation  lawyer — who  is  this  man? 
Where  did  he  come  from?  I  have  been  born 
and  raised  among  you.  You  all  know  me — do 
you  know  him  ?  Whut's  he  a-doin'  now  ?  He's 
a  fine-haired  furriner,  an'  he's  come  down  hyeh 
from  the  settlemints  to  tell  ye  that  you  hain't  got 
no  man  in  yo'  own  deestrict  that's  fittin'  to  repre 
sent  ye  in  the  legislatur'.  Look  at  him — look 
at  him !  He's  got  four  eyes !  Look  at  his  hair 
— hit's  parted  in  the  middle!  "  There  was  a 
storm  of  laughter — Uncle  Josh  had  made  good 
— and  if  the  Hon.  Samuel  could  straightway 
have  turned  bald-headed  and  sightless,  he  would 
have  been  a  happy  man.  He  looked  sick  with 
hopelessness,  but  Uncle  Tommie  Hendricks,  his 
mentor,  was  vigorously  whispering  something  in 
191 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

his  ear,  and  gradually  his  face  cleared.  Indeed, 
the  Hon.  Samuel  was  smilingly  confident  when 
he  rose. 

Like  his  rival,  he  stood  in  the  open  road,  and 
the  sun  beat  down  on  his  parted  yellow  hair,  so 
that  the  eyes  of  all  could  see,  and  the  laughter 
was  still  running  round. 

"  Who  is  your  Uncle  Josh?  "  he  asked  with 
threatening  mildness.  "  I  know  I  was  not  born 
here,  but,  my  friends,  I  couldn't  help  that.  And 
just  as  soon  as  I  could  get  away  from  where  I 
was  born,  I  came  here  and,"  he  paused  with  lips 
parted  and  long  finger  outstretched,  "  and — I — 
came — because — I  wanted — to  come — and  not 
because  /  had  /o." 

Now  it  seems  that  Uncle  Josh,  too,  was  not 
a  native  and  that  he  had  left  home  early 
in  life  for  his  State's  good  and  for  his  own. 
Uncle  Tommie  had  whispered  this,  and  the 
Hon.  Samuel  raised  himself  high  on  both 
toes  while  the  expectant  crowd,  on  the  verge  of 
a  roar,  waited — as  did  Uncle  Joshua,  with  a 
sickly  smile. 

'  Why  did  your  Uncle  Josh  come  among  you  ? 
Because  he  was  hoop-poled  away  from  home." 
Then  came  the  roar — and  the  Hon.  Samuel  had 
to  quell  it  with  uplifted  hand. 

"  And  did  your  Uncle  Joshua  marry  a  moun 
tain  wife  ?  No !  He  didn't  think  any  of  your 
192 


THE    AURICULAR   TALENT 

mountain  women  were  good  enough  for  him,  so 
he  slips  down  into  the  settlemints  and  steals  one. 
And  now,  fellow-citizens,  that  is  just  what  I'm 
here  for — I'm  looking  for  a  nice  mountain  girl, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  her."  Again  the  Hon. 
Samuel  had  to  still  the  roar,  and  then  he  went 
on  quietly  to  show  how  they  must  lose  the  Court- 
House  site  if  they  did  not  send  him  to  the  legis 
lature,  and  how,  while  they  might  not  get  it  if 
they  did  send  him,  it  was  their  only  hope  to  send 
only  him.  The  crowd  had  grown  somewhat  hos 
tile  again,  and  it  was  after  one  telling  period, 
when  the  Hon.  Samuel  stopped  to  mop  his  brow, 
that  a  gigantic  mountaineer  rose  in  the  rear  of 
the  crowd: 

"  Talk  on,  stranger ;  you're  talking  sense.  I'll 
trust  ye.  You've  got  big  ears!  " 

Now  the  Hon.  Samuel  possessed  a  primordial 
talent  that  is  rather  rare  in  these  physically 
degenerate  days.  He  said  nothing,  but  stood 
quietly  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  eyes  of 
the  crowd  on  either  side  of  the  road  began  to 
bulge,  the  lips  of  all  opened  with  wonder,  and  a 
simultaneous  burst  of  laughter  rose  around  the 
Hon.  Samuel  Budd.  A  dozen  men  sprang  to 
their  feet  and  rushed  up  to  him — looking  at 
those  remarkable  ears,  as  they  gravely  wagged 
to  and  fro.  That  settled  things,  and  as  we  left, 
the  Hon.  Sam  was  having  things  his  own  way, 
193 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

and  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd  Uncle  Tommic 
Hendricks  was  shaking  his  head : 

"  I  tell  ye,  boys,  he  ain't  no  jackass — even  if 
he  can  flop  his  ears." 

At  the  river  we  started  upstream,  and  some 
impulse  made  me  turn  in  my  saddle  and  look 
back.  All  the  time  I  had  had  an  eye  open  for 
the  young  mountaineer  whose  interest  in  us 
seemed  to  be  so  keen.  And  now  I  saw,  stand 
ing  at  the  head  of  a  gray  horse,  on  the  edge  of 
the  crowd,  a  tall  figure  with  his  hands  on  his 
hips  and  looking  after  us.  I  couldn't  be  sure, 
but  it  looked  like  the  Wild  Dog. 


194 


IV 

CLOSE    QUARTERS 

TWO  hours  up  the  river  we  struck  Buck. 
Buck  was  sitting  on  the  fence  by  the  road 
side,  barefooted  and  hatless. 

"  How-dye-do?"  I  said. 

"  Purty  well,"  said  Buck. 

"  Any  fish  in  this  river?  " 

"  Several,"  said  Buck.  Now  in  mountain 
speech,  "  several "  means  simply  "  a  good 
many." 

"  Any  minnows  in  these  branches?  " 

"  I  seed  several  in  the  branch  back  o'  our 
house." 

"  How  far  away  do  you  live?  " 

"  Oh,  'bout  one  whoop  an'  a  holler."  If  he 
had  spoken  Greek  the  Blight  could  not  have  been 
more  puzzled.  He  meant  he  lived  as  far  as  a 
man's  voice  would  carry  with  one  yell  and  a 
holler. 

"Will  you  help  me  catch  some?"  Buck 
nodded. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  turning  my  horse  up  to 
195 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

the  fence.  "  Get  on  behind."  The  horse  shied 
his  hind  quarters  away,  and  I  pulled  him 
back. 

"  Now,  you  can  get  on,  if  you'll  be  quick.'* 
Buck  sat  still. 

"Yes,"  he  said  imperturbably ;  "  but  I  ain't 
quick."  The  two  girls  laughed  aloud,  and  Buck 
looked  surprised. 

Around  a  curving  cornfield  we  went,  and 
through  a  meadow  which  Buck  said  was  a  "  nigh 
cut."  From  the  limb  of  a  tree  that  we  passed 
hung  a  piece  of  wire  with  an  iron  ring  swinging 
at  its  upturned  end.  A  little  farther  was  an 
other  tree  and  another  ring,  and  farther  on  an 
other  and  another. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Buck,  what  are  these 
things?" 

"  Mart's  a-gittin'  ready  fer  a  tourneyment." 

"A  what?" 

"  That's  whut  Mart  calls  hit.  He  was  over 
to  the  Gap  last  Fourth  o'  July,  an'  he  says  fellers 
over  thar  fix  up  like  Kuklux  and  go  a-chargin' 
on  bosses  and  takin'  off  them  rings  with  a  ash- 
stick — *  spear,'  Mart  calls  hit.  He  come  back 
an'  he  says  he's  a-goin'  to  win  that  ar  tourney 
ment  next  Fourth  o'  July.  He's  got  the  best 
boss  up  this  river,  and  on  Sundays  him  an'  Dave 
Branham  goes  a-chargin'  along  here  a-pickin'  off 
these  rings  jus'  a-flyin';  an'  Mart  can  do  hit,  I'm 
196 


CLOSE    QUARTERS 

tellin'  ye.     Dave's  mighty  good  hisself,  but  he 
ain't  nowhar  'longside  o'  Mart." 

This  was  strange.  I  had  told  the  Blight  about 
our  Fourth  of  July,  and  how  on  the  Virginia 
side  the  ancient  custom  of  the  tournament 
still  survived.  It  was  on  the  last  Fourth  of 
July  that  she  had  meant  to  come  to  the  Gap. 
Truly  civilization  was  spreading  throughout 
the  hills. 

"Who's  Mart?" 

"  Mart's  my  brother,"  said  little  Buck.  "  He 
was  over  to  the  Gap  not  long  ago,  an'  he  come 
back  mad  as  hops — "  He  stopped  suddenly,  and 
in  such  a  way  that  I  turned  my  head,  knowing 
that  caution  had  caught  Buck. 

"What  about?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  said  Buck  carelessly;  "only 
he's  been  quar  ever  since.  My  sister  says  he's 
got  a  gal  over  thar,  an'  he's  a-pickin'  off  these 
rings  more'n  ever  now.  He's  going  to  win  or 
bust  a  belly-band." 

"  Well,  who's  Dave  Branham?  " 

Buck  grinned.  "  You  jes  axe  my  sister  Mol- 
lie.  Thar  she  is." 

Before  us  was  a  white-framed  house  of  logs 
in  the  porch  of  which  stood  two  stalwart,  good- 
looking  girls.  Could  we  stay  all  night?  We 
could — there  was  no  hesitation — and  straight  in 
we  rode. 

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A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

"  Where's  your  father  ?  "  Both  girls  giggled, 
and  one  said,  with  frank  unembarrassment : 

"  Pap's  tight!  "  That  did  not  look  promis 
ing,  but  we  had  to  stay  just  the  same.  Buck 
helped  me  to  unhitch  the  mules,  helped  me  also 
to  catch  minnows,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  started 
down  the  river  to  try  fishing  before  dark  came. 
Buck  trotted  along. 

"  Have  you  got  a  wagon,  Buck?  " 

"What  far?" 

"  To  bring  the  fish  back."  Buck  was  not  to 
be  caught  napping. 

"  We  got  that  sled  thar,  but  hit  won't  be  big 
enough,"  he  said  gravely.  "  An'  our  two-hoss 
wagon's  out  in  the  cornfield.  We'll  have  to 
string  the  fish,  leave  'em  in  the  river  and  go  fer 
'em  in  the  mornin'." 

"  All  right,  Buck."  The  Blight  was  greatly 
amused  at  Buck. 

Two  hundred  yards  down  the  road  stood  his 
sisters  over  the  figure  of  a  man  outstretched  in 
the  road.  Unashamed,  they  smiled  at  us.  The 
man  in  the  road  was  "  pap  " — tight — and  they 
were  trying  to  get  him  home. 

We  cast  into  a  dark  pool  farther  down  and 
fished  most  patiently ;  not  a  bite — not  a  nibble. 

"  Are  there  any  fish  in  here,  Buck?  " 

"  Dunno — used  ter  be."     The  shadows  deep 
ened  ;  we  must  go  back  to  the  house. 
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"  Is  there  a  dam  below  here,  Buck?  " 

"  Yes,  thar's  a  dam  about  a  half-mile  down 
the  river." 

I  was  disgusted.  No  wonder  there  were  no 
bass  in  that  pool. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?" 

"  You  never  axed  me,"  said  Buck  placidly. 

I  began  winding  in  my  line. 

"  Ain't  no  bottom  to  that  pool,"  said  Buck. 

Now  I  never  saw  any  rural  community  where 
there  was  not  a  bottomless  pool,  and  I  suddenly 
determined  to  shake  one  tradition  in  at  least  one 
community.  So  I  took  an  extra  fish-line,  tied  a 
stone  to  it,  and  climbed  into  a  canoe,  Buck  watch 
ing  me,  but  not  asking  a  word. 

"  Get  in,   Buck." 

Silently  he  got  in  and  I  pushed  off — to  the 
centre. 

"  This  the  deepest  part,  Buck?  " 

"  I  reckon  so." 

I  dropped  in  the  stone  and  the  line  reeled  out 
some  fifty  feet  and  began  to  coil  on  the  surface 
of  the  water. 

"  I  guess  that's  on  the  bottom,  isn't  it, 
Buck?" 

Buck  looked  genuinely  distressed;  but  pres 
ently  he  brightened. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  ef  hit  ain't  on  a  turtle's 
back." 

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A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

Literally  I  threw  up  both  hands  and  back  we 
trailed — fishless. 

44  Reckon  you  won't  need  that  two-hoss 
wagon,"  said  Buck. 

"  No,  Buck,  I  think  not."  Buck  looked  at  the 
Blight  and  gave  himself  the  pleasure  of  his  first 
chuckle.  A  big,  crackling,  cheerful  fire  awaited 
us.  Through  the  door  I  could  see,  outstretched 
on  a  bed  in  the  next  room,  the  limp  figure  of 
"  pap  "  in  alcoholic  sleep.  The  old  mother,  big, 
kind-faced,  explained — and  there  was  a  heaven 
of  kindness  and  charity  in  her  drawling  voice. 

44  Dad  didn'  often  git  that  a-way,"  she  said ; 
*4  but  he'd  been  out  a-huntin'  hawgs  that  mornin' 
and  had  met  up  with  some  teamsters  and  gone 
to  a  political  speakin'  and  had  tuk  a  dram  or  two 
of  their  mean  whiskey,  and  not  havin'  nothin* 
on  his  stummick,  hit  had  all  gone  to  his  head. 
No,  4  pap  '  didn't  git  that  a-way  often,  and  he'd 
be  all  right  jes'  as  soon  as  he  slept  it  off  a  while." 
The  old  woman  moved  about  with  a  cane  and  the 
sympathetic  Blight  merely  looked  a  question  at 
her. 

44  Yes,  she'd  fell  down  a  year  ago — and  had 
sort  o'  hurt  herself — didn't  do  nothin',  though, 
'cept  break  one  hip,"  she  added,  in  her  kind, 
patient  old  voice.  Did  many  people  stop  there  ? 
Oh,  yes,  sometimes  fifteen  at  a  time — they 
44  never  turned  nobody  away."  And  she  had  a 
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big  family,  little  Cindy  and  the  two  big  girls  and 
Buck  and  Mart — who  was  out  somewhere — and 
the  hired  man,  and  yes — "  Thar  was  another 
boy,  but  he  was  fitified,"  said  one  of  the  big 
sisters. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  wondering 
Blight,  but  she  knew  that  phrase  wouldn't  do, 
so  she  added  politely : 

44  What  did  you  say?" 

44  Fitified — Tom  has  fits.  He's  in  a  asylum 
in  the  settlements." 

44  Tom  come  back  once  an'  he  was  all  right," 
said  the  old  mother;  44  but  he  worried  so  much 
over  them  gals  workin'  so  hard  that  it  plum' 
throwed  him  off  ag'in,  and  we  had  to  send  him 
back." 

44  Do  you  work  pretty  hard?  "  I  asked  pres 
ently.  Then  a  story  came  that  was  full  of  un 
conscious  pathos,  because  there  was  no  hint  of 
complaint — simply  a  plain  statement  of  daily  life. 
They  got  up  before  the  men,  in  order  to  get 
breakfast  ready;  then  they  went  with  the  men 
into  the  fields — those  two  girls — and  worked  like 
men.  At  dark  they  got  supper  ready,  and  after 
the  men  went  to  bed  they  worked  on — washing 
dishes  and  clearing  up  the  kitchen.  They  took 
it  turn  about  getting  supper,  and  sometimes,  one 
said,  she  was  "  so  plumb  tuckered  out  that  she'd 
drap  on  the  bed  and  go  to  sleep  ruther  than  eat 
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A    KOTGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

her  own  supper."  No  wonder  poor  Tom  had 
to  go  back  to  the  asylum.  All  the  while  the  two 
girls  stood  by  the  fire  looking,  politely  but  mi 
nutely,  at  the  two  strange  girls  and  their  curious 
clothes  and  their  boots,  and  the  way  they  dressed 
their  hair.  Their  hard  life  seemed  to  have  hurt 
them  none — for  both  were  the  pictures  of  health 
— whatever  that  phrase  means. 

After  supper  "  pap  "  came  in,  perfectly  sober, 
with  a  big,  ruddy  face,  giant  frame,  and  twin 
kling  gray  eyes.  He  was  the  man  who  had  risen 
to  speak  his  faith  in  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd  that 
day  on  the  size  of  the  Hon.  Samuel's  ears.  He, 
too,  was  unashamed  and,  as  he  explained  his 
plight  again,  he  did  it  with  little  apology. 

"  I  seed  ye  at  the  speakin'  to-day.  That  man 
Budd  is  a  good  man.  He  done  somethin'  fer  a 
boy  o*  mine  over  at  the  Gap."  Like  little  Buck, 
he,  too,  stopped  short.  "  He's  a  good  man  an* 
I'm  a-goin'  to  help  him." 

Yes,  he  repeated,  quite  irrelevantly,  it  was 
hunting  hogs  all  day  with  nothing  to  eat  and  only 
mean  whiskey  to  drink.  Mart  had  not  come  in 
yet — he  was  "  workin'  out  "  now. 

"  He's  the  best  worker  in  these  mountains," 
said  the  old  woman;  "  Mart  works  too  hard." 

The  hired  man  appeared  and  joined  us  at  the 
fire.  Bedtime  came,  and  I  whispered  jokingly 
to  the  Blight : 

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"  I  believe  I'll  ask  that  good-looking  one  to 
*  set  up  '  with  me."  "  Settin'  up  "  is  what  court 
ing  is  called  in  the  hills.  The  couple  sit  up  in 
front  of  the  fire  after  everybody  else  has  gone 
to  bed.  The  man  puts  his  arm  around  the  girl's 
neck  and  whispers ;  then  she  puts  her  arm  around 
his  neck  and  whispers — so  that  the  rest  may  not 
hear.  This  I  had  related  to  the  Blight,  and  now 
she  withered  me. 

"  You  just  do,  now !  " 

I  turned  to  the  girl  in  question,  whose  name 
was  Mollie.  "  Buck  told  me  to  ask  you  who 
Dave  Branham  was."  Mollie  wheeled,  blush 
ing  and  angry,  but  Buck  had  darted,  cackling, 
out  the  door.  "  Oh,"  I  said,  and  I  changed  the 
subject.  "  What  time  do  you  get  up?  " 

"  Oh,  'bout  crack  o'  day."  I  was  tired,  and 
that  was  discouraging. 

"  Do  you  get  up  that  early  every  morning?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  quick  answer;  "a  mornin' 
later." 

A  morning  later,  Mollie  got  up,  each  morning. 
The  Blight  laughed. 

Pretty  soon  the  two  girls  were  taken  into  the 
next  room,  which  was  a  long  one,  with  one  bed 
in  one  dark  corner,  one  in  the  other,  and  a  third 
bed  in  the  middle.  The  feminine  members  of 
the  family  all  followed  them  put  on  the  porch 
and  watched  them  brush  their  teeth,  for  they  had 
203 


A   KNIGHT   OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

never  seen  tooth-brushes  before.  They  watched 
them  prepare  for  bed — and  I  could  hear  much 
giggling  and  comment  and  many  questions,  all 
of  which  culminated,  by  and  by,  in  a  chorus  of 
shrieking  laughter.  That  climax,  as  I  learned 
next  morning,  was  over  the  Blight's  hot-water 
bag.  Never  had  their  eyes  rested  on  an  article 
of  more  wonder  and  humor  than  that  water  bag. 

By  and  by,  the  feminine  members  came  back 
and  we  sat  around  the  fire.  Still  Mart  did  not 
appear,  though  somebody  stepped  into  the  kitch 
en,  and  from  the  warning  glance  that  Mollie 
gave  Buck  when  she  left  the  room  I  guessed 
that  the  newcomer  was  her  lover  Dave.  Pretty 
soon  the  old  man  yawned. 

;<  Well,  mammy,  I  reckon  this  stranger's  about 
ready  to  lay  down,  if  you've  got  a  place  fer 
him." 

"  Git  a  light,  Buck,"  said  the  old  woman. 
Buck  got  a  light — a  chimneyless,  smoking  oil- 
lamp — and  led  me  into  the  same  room  where  the 
Blight  and  my  little  sister  were.  Their  heads 
were  covered  up,  but  the  bed  in  the  gloom  of 
one  corner  was  shaking  with  their  smothered 
laughter.  Buck  pointed  to  the  middle  bed. 

"  I  can  get  along  without  that  light,  Buck," 

I  said,  and  I  must  have  been  rather  haughty  and 

abrupt,  for  a  stifled  shriek  came  from  under  the 

bedclothes  in  the  corner  and  Buck  disappeared 

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swiftly.  Preparations  for  bed  are  simple  in  the 
mountains — they  were  primitively  simple  for  me 
that  night.  Being  in  knickerbockers,  I  merely 
took  off  my  coat  and  shoes.  Presently  somebody 
else  stepped  into  the  room  and  the  bed  in  the 
other  corner  creaked.  Silence  for  a  while. 
Then  the  door  opened,  and  the  head  of  the  old 
woman  was  thrust  in. 

"  Mart!  "  she  said  coaxingly;  "  git  up  thar 
now  an'  climb  over  inter  bed  with  that  ar 
stranger." 

That  was  Mart  at  last,  over  in  the  corner. 
Mart  turned,  grumbled,  and,  to  my  great  plea 
sure,  swore  that  he  wouldn't.  The  old  woman 
waited  a  moment. 

"  Mart,"  she  said  again  with  gentle  im- 
periousness,  "  git  up  thar  now,  I  tell  ye — you've 
got  to  sleep  with  that  thar  stranger." 

She  closed  the  door  and  with  a  snort  Mart 
piled  into  bed  with  me.  I  gave  him  plenty  of 
room  and  did  not  introduce  myself.  A  little 
more  dark  silence — the  shaking  of  the  bed  under 
the  hilarity  of  those  astonished,  bethrilled,  but 
thoroughly  unfrightened  young  women  in  the 
dark  corner  on  my  left  ceased,  and  again  the 
door  opened.  This  time  it  was  the  hired  man, 
and  I  saw  that  the  trouble  was  either  that  neither 
Mart  nor  Buck  wanted  to  sleep  with  the  hired 
man  or  that  neither  wanted  to  sleep  with  me. 
205 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBEKLAND 

A  long  silence  and  then  the  boy  Buck  slipped  in. 
The  hired  man  delivered  himself  with  the  into 
nation  somewhat  of  a  circuit  rider. 

"  I've  been  a-watchin'  that  star  thar,  through 
the  winder.  Sometimes  hit  moves,  then  hit 
stands  plum'  still,  an7  ag'in  hit  gits  to  pitchin'." 
The  hired  man  must  have  been  touching  up  mean 
whiskey  himself.  Meanwhile,  Mart  seemed  to 
be  having  spells  of  troubled  slumber.  He  would 
snore  gently,  accentuate  said  snore  with  a  sudden 
quiver  of  his  body  and  then  wake  up  with  a  cli 
macteric  snort  and  start  that  would  shake  the 
bed.  This  was  repeated  several  times,  and  I 
began  to  think  of  the  unfortunate  Tom  who  was 
"  fitified."  Mart  seemed  on  the  verge  of  a  fit 
himself,  and  I  waited  apprehensively  for  each 
snorting  climax  to  see  if  fits  were  a  family  fail 
ing.  They  were  not.  Peace  overcame  Mart 
and  he  slept  deeply,  but  not  I.  The  hired  man 
began  to  show  symptoms.  He  would  roll  and 
groan,  dreaming  of  feuds,  quorum  pars  magna 
fuit,  it  seemed,  and  of  religious  conversion,  in 
which  he  feared  he  was  not  so  great.  Twice  he 
said  aloud: 

"  An'  I  tell  you  thar  wouldn't  a  one  of  'em 
have  said  a  word  if  I'd  been  killed  stone-dead." 
Twice  he  said  it  almost  weepingly,  and  now  and 
then  he  would  groan  appealingly : 

"  O  Lawd,  have  mercy  on  my  pore  soul !  " 
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Fortunately  those  two  tired  girls  slept — I 
could  hear  their  breathing — but  sleep  there  was 
little  for  me.  Once  the  troubled  soul  with  the 
hoe  got  up  and  stumbled  out  to  the  water-bucket 
on  the  porch  to  soothe  the  fever  or  whatever  it 
was  that  was  burning  him,  and  after  that  he  was 
quiet.  I  awoke  before  day.  The  dim  light  at 
the  window  showed  an  empty  bed — Buck  and 
the  hired  man  were  gone.  Mart  was  slipping 
out  of  the  side  of  my  bed,  but  the  girls  still  slept 
on.  I  watched  Mart,  for  I  guessed  I  might 
now  see  what,  perhaps,  is  the  distinguishing  trait 
of  American  civilization  down  to  its  bed-rock,  as. 
you  find  ikthrough  the  West  and  in  the  Southern 
hills — a  chivalrous  respect  for  women.  Mart 
though!  I  was  asleep.  Over  in  the  corner  were 
two  creatures  the  like  of  which  I  supposed  he 
had  never  seen  and  would  not  see,  since  he  came 
in  too  late  the  night  before,  and  was  going  away 
too  early  now — and  two  angels  straight  from 
heaven  could  not  have  stirred  my  curiosity  any 
more  than  they  already  must  have  stirred  his. 
But  not  once  did  Mart  turn  his  eyes,  much  less 
his  face,  toward  the  corner  where  they  were — • 
not  once,  for  I  watched  him  closely.  And  when 
he  went  out  he  sent  his  little  sister  back  for  his 
shoes,  which  the  night-walking  hired  man  had 
accidentally  kicked  toward  the  foot  of  the 
strangers'  bed  In  a  minute  I  was  out  after  him, 
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A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

but  he  was  gone.  Behind  me  the  two  girls 
opened  their  eyes  on  a  room  that  was  empty 
save  for  them.  Then  the  Blight  spoke  (this  I 
was  told  later) . 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  "  have  our  room-mates 
gone?" 

Breakfast  at  dawn.  The  mountain  girls  were 
ready  to  go  to  work.  All  looked  sorry  to  have 
us  leave.  They  asked  us  to  come  back  again, 
and  they  meant  it.  We  said  we  would  like  to 
come  back — and  we  meant  it — to  see  them — 
the  kind  old  mother,  the  pioneer-like  old  man, 
sturdy  little  Buck,  shy  little  Cindy,  the  elusive, 
hard-working,  unconsciously  shivery  Mart,  and 
the  two  big  sisters.  As  we  started  back  up  the 
river  the  sisters  started  for  the  fields,  and  I 
thought  of  their  stricken  brother  in  the  settle 
ments,  who  must  have  been  much  like  Mart. 

Back  up  the  Big  Black  Mountain  we  toiled, 
and  late  in  the  afternoon  we  were  on  the  State 
line  that  runs  the  crest  of  the  Big  Black.  Right 
on  top  and  bisected  by  that  State  line  sat  a  dingy 
little  shack,  and  there,  with  one  leg  thrown  over 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  sat  Marston,  drink 
ing  water  from  a  gourd. 

"  I  was  coming  over  to  meet  you,"  he  said, 

smiling   at    the    Blight,    who,    greatly   pleased, 

smiled  back  at  him.     The  shack  was  a  "  blind 

Tiger  "  where  whiskey  could  be  sold  to   Ken- 

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tuckians  on  the  Virginia  side  and  to  Virginians 
on  the  Kentucky  side.  Hanging  around  were 
the  slouching  figures  of  several  moonshiners  and 
the  villainous  fellow  who  ran  it. 

"  They  are  real  ones  all  right,"  said  Marston. 
"  One  of  them  killed  a  revenue  officer  at  that 
front  door  last  week,  and  was  killed  by  the  posse 
as  he  was  trying  to  escape  out  of  the  back  win 
dow.  That  house  will  be  in  ashes  soon,1'  he 
added.  And  it  was. 

As  we  rode  down  the  mountain  we  told  him 
about  our  trip  and  the  people  with  whom  we 
had  spent 'the  night — and  all  the  time  he  was 
smiling  curiously. 

"  Buck,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that 
little  chap.  Mart  had  him  posted  down  there 
on  the  river  to  toll  you  to  his  house — to  toll 
you"  he  added  to  the  Blight.  He  pulled  in  his 
horse  suddenly,  turned  and  looked  up  toward  the 
top  of  the  mountain. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so."  We  all  looked  back. 
On  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  far  upward,  on  which 
the  "  blind  Tiger  "  sat  was  a  gray  horse,  and  on 
it  was  a  man  who,  motionless,  was  looking  down 
at  us.  "  He's  been  following  you  all  the  way," 
said  the  engineer. 

"  Who's  been  following  us?  "  I  asked. 

"  That's  Mart  up  there — my  friend  and 
yours,"  said  Marston  to  the  Blight.  "  I'm 
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rA   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

rather  glad  I  didn't  meet  you  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain — that's  *  the  Wild  Dog.'  " 
The  Blight  looked  incredulous,  but  Marston 
knew  the  man  and  knew  the  horse. 

So  Mart — hard-working  Mart — was  the  Wild 
Dog,  and  he  was  content  to  do  the  Blight  all 
service  without  thanks,  merely  for  the  privilege 
of  secretly  seeing  her  face  now  and  then;  and 
yet  he  would  not  look  upon  that  face  when  she 
was  a  guest  under  his  roof  and  asleep. 

Still,  when  we  dropped  behind  the  two  girls 
I  gave  Marston  the  Hon.  Sam's  warning,  and 
for  a  moment  he  looked  rather  grave. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  if  I'm  found  in 
the  road  some  day,  you'll  know  who  did  it." 

I  shook  my  head.  "Oh,  no;  he  isn't  that 
bad." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Marston. 

The  smoke  of  the  young  engineer's  coke  ovens 
lay  far  below  us  and  the  Blight  had  never  seen 
a  coke-plant  before.  It  looked  like  Hades  even 
in  the  early  dusk — the  snake-like  coil  of  fiery 
ovens  stretching  up  the  long,  deep  ravine,  and 
the  smoke-streaked  clouds  of  fire,  trailing  like  a 
yellow  mist  over  them,  with  a  fierce  white  blast 
shooting  up  here  and  there  when  the  lid  of  an 
oven  was  raised,  as  though  to  add  fresh  temper 
ature  to  some  particular  malefactor  in  some  par- 
210 


CLOSE    QUARTERS 

ticular  chamber  of  torment.  Humanity  about 
was  joyous,  however.  Laughter  and  banter  and 
song  came  from  the  cabins  that  lined  the  big 
ravine  and  the  little  ravines  opening  into  it.  A 
banjo  tinkled  at  the  entrance  of  "  Possum  Trot," 
sacred  to  the  darkies.  We  moved  toward  it. 
On  the  stoop  sat  an  ecstatic  picker  and  in  the  dust 
shuffled  three  pickaninnies — one  boy  and  two 
girls — the  youngest  not  five  years  old.  The 
crowd  that  was  gathered  about  them  gave  way 
respectfully  as  we  drew  near;  the  little  darkies 
showed  their  white  teeth  in  jolly  grins,  and  their 
feet  shook  the  dust  in  happy  competition.  I 
showered  a  few  coins  for  the  Blight  and  on  we 
went — into  the  mouth  of  the  many-peaked  Gap. 
The  night  train  was  coming  in  and  everybody 
had  a  smile  of  welcome  for  the  Blight — post- 
office  assistant,  drug  clerk,  soda-water  boy,  tele 
graph  operator,  hostler,  who  came  for  the  mules 
— and  when  tired,  but  happy,  she  slipped  from 
her  saddle  to  the  ground,  she  then  and  there 
gave  me  what  she  usually  reserves  for  Christmas 
morning,  and  that,  too,  while  Marston  was  look 
ing  on.  Over  her  shoulder  I  smiled  at  him. 

That  night  Marston  and  the  Blight  sat  under 
the  vines  on  the  porch  until  the  late  moon  rose 
over  Wallens  Ridge,  and,  when  bedtime  came, 
the  Blight  said  impatiently  that  she  did  not  want 

211 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

to  go  home.  She  had  to  go,  however,  next 
day,  but  on  the  next  Fourth  of  July  she  would 
surely  come  again;  and,  as  the  young  engineer 
mounted  his  horse  and  set  his  face  toward  Black 
Mountain,  I  knew  that  until  that  day,  for  him, 
a  blight  would  still  be  in  the  hills. 


212 


BACK   TO   THE    HILLS 

WINTER  drew  a  gray  veil  over  the  moun 
tains,  wove  into  it  tiny  jewels  of  frost 
and  turned  it  many  times  into  a  mask  of  snow, 
before  spring  broke  again  among  them  and  in 
Marston's  impatient  heart.  No  spring  had  ever 
been  like  that  to  him.  The  coming  of  young 
leaves  and  flowers  and  bird-song  meant  but  one 
joy  for  the  hills  to  him — the  Blight  was  coming 
back  to  them.  All  those  weary  waiting  months 
he  had  clung  grimly  to  his  work.  He  must  have 
heard  from  her  sometimes,  else  I  think  he  would 
have  gone  to  her;  but  I  knew  the  Blight's  pen 
was  reluctant  and  casual  for  anybody,  and,  more 
over,  she  was  having  a  strenuous  winter  at  home. 
That  he  knew  as  well,  for  he  took  one  paper, 
at  least,  that  he  might  simply  read  her  name. 
He  saw  accounts  of  her  many  social  doings  as 
well,  and  ate  his  heart  out  as  lovers  have  done 
for  all  time  gone  and  will  do  for  all  time  to 
come. 

I,  too,  was  away  all  winter,  but  I  got  back  a 
213 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBEKLAND 

month  before  the  Blight,  to  learn  much  of  inter 
est  that  had  come  about.  The  Hon.  Samuel 
Budd  had  ear-wagged  himself  into  the  legisla 
ture,  had  moved  that  Court-House,  and  was  go 
ing  to  be  State  Senator.  The  Wild  Dog  had 
confined  his  reckless  career  to  his  own  hills 
through  the  winter,  but  when  spring  came,  mi- 
gratory-like,  he  began  to  take  frequent  wing  to 
the  Gap.  So  far,  he  and  Marston  had  never 
come  into  personal  conflict,  though  Marston 
kept  ever  ready  for  him,  and  several  times  they 
had  met  in  the  road,  eyed  each  other  in  passing 
and  made  no  hipward  gesture  at  all.  But  then 
Marston  had  never  met  him  when  the  Wild  Dog 
was  drunk — and  when  sober,  I  took  it  that  the 
one  act  of  kindness  from  the  engineer  always 
stayed  his  hand.  But  the  Police  Guard  at  the 
Gap  saw  him  quite  often — and  to  it  he  was  a 
fearful  and  elusive  nuisance.  He  seemed  to  be 
staying  somewhere  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles, 
for  every  night  or  two  he  would  circle  about 
the  town,  yelling  and  firing  his  pistol,  and  when 
we  chased  him,  escaping  through  the  Gap  or  up 
the  valley  or  down  In  Lee.  Many  plans  were 
laid  to  catch  him,  but  all  failed,  and  finally  he 
came  in  one  day  and  gave  himself  up  and  paid 
his  fines.  Afterward  I  recalled  that  the  time  of 
this  gracious  surrender  to  law  and  order  was  but 
little  subsequent  to  one  morning  when  a  woman 
214 


BACK   TO    THE   HILLS 

who  brought  butter  and  eggs  to  my  little  sister 
casually  asked  when  that  "  purty  slim  little  gal 
with  the  snappin'  black  eyes  was  a-comin'  back." 
And  the  little  sister,  pleased  with  the  remem 
brance,  had  said  cordially  that  she  was  coming 
soon. 

Thereafter  .the  Wild  Dog  was  in  town  every 
day,  and  he  behaved  well  until  one  Saturday  he 
got  drunk  again,  and  this  time,  by  a  peculiar 
chance,  it  was  Marston  again  who  leaped  on 
him,  wrenched  his  pistol  away,  and  put  him  in 
the  calaboose.  Again  he  paid  his  fine,  promptly 
visited  a  "  blind  Tiger,"  came  back  to  town, 
emptied  another  pistol  at  Marston  on  sight  and 
fled  for  the  hills. 

The  enraged  Guard  chased  him  for  two  days 
and  from  that  day  the  Wild  Dog  was  a  marked 
man.  The  Guard  wanted  many  men,  but  if  they 
could  have  had  their  choice  they  would  have 
picked  out  of  the  world  of  malefactors  that 
same  Wild  Dog. 

Why  all  this  should  have  thrown  the  Hon. 
Samuel  Budd  into  such  gloom  I  could  not  un 
derstand — except  that  the  Wild  Dog  had  been 
so  loyal  a  henchman  to  him  in  politics,  but  later 
I  learned  a  better  reason,  that  threatened  to  cost 
the  Hon.  Sam  much  more  than  the  fines  that,  as 
I  later  learned,  he  had  been  paying  for  his  moun 
tain  friend. 

215 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

Meanwhile,  the  Blight  was  coming  from  her 
Northern  home  through  the  green  lowlands  of 
Jersey,  the  fat  pastures  of  Maryland,  and,  as 
the  white  dresses  of  school-girls  and  the  shining 
faces  of  darkies  thickened  at  the  stations,  she 
knew  that  she  was  getting  southward.  All  the 
way  she  was  known  and  welcomed,  and  next 
morning  she  awoke  with  the  keen  air  of  the  dis 
tant  mountains  in  her  nostrils  and  an  expectant 
light  in  her  happy  eyes.  At  least  the  light  was 
there  when  she  stepped  daintily  from  the  dusty 
train  and  it  leaped  a  little,  I  fancied,  when  Mar- 
ston,  bronzed  and  flushed,  held  out  his  sunburnt 
hand.  Like  a  convent  girl  she  babbled  ques 
tions  to  the  little  sister  as  the  dummy  puffed 
along  and  she  bubbled  like  wine  over  the  mid 
summer  glory  of  the  hills.  And  well  she  might, 
for  the  glory  of  the  mountains,  full-leafed, 
shrouded  in  evening  shadows,  blue-veiled  in 
the  distance,  was  unspeakable,  and  through  the 
Gap  the  sun  was  sending  his  last  rays  as  though 
he,  too,  meant  to  take  a  peep  at  her  before 
he  started  around  the  world  to  welcome  her 
next  day.  And  she  must  know  everything 
at  once.  The  anniversary  of  the  Great  Day 
on  which  all  men  were  pronounced  free  and 
equal  was  only  ten  days  distant  and  prepara 
tions  were  going  on.  There  would  be  a  big 
crowd  of  mountaineers  and  there  would  be 
216 


BACK   TO    THE    HILLS 

sports  of  all  kinds,  and  games,  but  the  tourna 
ment  was  to  be  the  feature  of  the  day.  "  A 
tournament?  "  "  Yes,  a  tournament,"  repeated 
the  little  sister,  and  Marston  was  going  to 
ride  and  the  mean  thing  would  not  tell  what 
mediaeval  name  he  meant  to  take.  And  the 
Hon.  Sam.  Budd  —  did  the  Blight  remem 
ber  him?  (indeed,  she  did) — had  a  "  dark 
horse,"  and  he  had  bet  heavily  that  his  dark 
horse  would  win  the  tournament — whereat  the 
little  sister  looked  at  Marston  and  at  the 
Blight  and  smiled  disdainfully.  And  the  Wild 
Dog — did  she  remember  him?  I  checked 
the  sister  here  with  a  glance,  for  Marston 
looked  uncomfortable  and  the  Blight  saw  me 
do  it,  and  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
she  checked  herself,  and  her  face,  I  thought, 
paled  a  little. 

That  night  I  learned  why — when  she  came  in 
from  the  porch  after  Marston  was  gone.  I  saw 
she  had  wormed  enough  of  the  story  out  of  him 
to  worry  her,  for  her  face  this  time  was  distinctly 
pale.  I  would  tell  her  no  more  than  she  knew, 
however,  and  then  she  said  she  was  sure  she  had 
seen  the  Wild  Dog  herself  that  afternoon,  sitting 
on  his  horse  in  the  bushes  near  a  station  in  Wild 
cat  Valley.  She  was  sure  that  he  saw  her,  and 
his  face  had  frightened  her.  I  knew  her  fright 
was  for  Marston  and  not  for  herself,  so  I  laughed 
217 


A   KNIGHT   OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

at  her  fears.  She  was  mistaken — Wild  Dog 
was  an  outlaw  now  and  he  would  not  dare  appear 
at  the  Gap,  and  there  was  no  chance  that  he 
could  harm  her  or  Marston.  And  yet  I  was 
uneasy. 

It  must  have  been  a  happy  ten  days  for  those 
two  young  people.  Every  afternoon  Marston 
would  come  in  from  the  mines  and  they  would 
go  off  horseback  together,  over  ground  that  I 
well  knew — for  I  had  been  all  over  it  myself — 
up  through  the  gray-peaked  rhododendron-bor 
dered  Gap  with  the  swirling  water  below  them 
and  the  gray  rock  high  above  where  another  such 
foolish  lover  lost  his  life,  climbing  to  get  a 
flower  for  his  sweetheart,  or  down  the  winding 
dirt  road  into  Lee,  or  up  through  the  beech 
woods  behind  Imboden  Hill,  or  climbing  the 
spur  of  Morris's  Farm  to  watch  the  sunset  over 
the  majestic  Big  Black  Mountains,  where  the 
Wild  Dog  lived,  and  back  through  the  fragrant, 
cool,  moonlit  woods.  He  was  doing  his  best, 
Marston  was,  and  he  was  having  trouble — as 
every  man  should.  And  that  trouble  I  knew 
even  better  than  he,  for  I  had  once  known  a 
Southern  girl  who  was  so  tender  of  heart  that 
she  could  refuse  no  man  who  really  loved  her — 
she  accepted  him  and  sent  him  to  her  father,  who 
did  all  of  her  refusing  for  her.  And  I  knew  no 
man  would  know  that  he  had  won  the  Blight  un- 
218 


BACK   TO    THE    HILLS 

til  he  had  her  at  the  altar  and  the  priestly  hand 
of  benediction  was  above  her  head. 

Of  such  kind  was  the  Blight.  Every  night 
when  they  came  in  I  could  read  the  story  of  the 
day,  always  in  his  face  and  sometimes  in  hers; 
and  it  was  a  series  of  ups  and  downs  that  must 
have  wrung  the  boy's  heart  bloodless.  Still  I 
was  in  good  hope  for  him,  until  the  crisis  came 
on  the  night  before  the  Fourth.  The  quarrel  was 
as  plain  as  though  typewritten  on  the  face  of 
each.  Marston  would  not  come  in  that  night 
and  the  Blight  went  dinnerless  to  bed  and  cried 
herself  to  sleep.  She  told  the  little  sister  that 
she  had  seen  the  Wild  Dog  again  peering 
through  the  bushes,  and  that  she  was  fright 
ened.  That  was  her  explanation — but  I  guessed 
a  better  one. 


219 


VI 

THE  GREAT  DAY 

IT  was  a  day  to  make  glad  the  heart  of  slave 
or  freeman.  The  earth  was  cool  from  a 
night-long  rain,  and  a  gentle  breeze  fanned  cool 
ness  from  the  north  all  day  long.  The  clouds 
were  snow-white,  tumbling,  ever-moving,  and 
between  them  the  sky  showed  blue  and  deep. 
Grass,  leaf,  weed  and  flower  were  in  the  rich 
ness  that  comes  to  the  green  things  of  the  earth 
just  before  that  full  tide  of  summer  whose  foam 
is  drifting  thistle-down.  The  air  was  clear  and 
the  mountains  seemed  to  have  brushed  the  haze 
from  their  faces  and  drawn  nearer  that  they,  too, 
might  better  see  the  doings  of  that  day. 

From  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  that  morning, 
came  the  brave  and  the  free.  Up  from  Lee, 
down  from  Little  Stone  Gap,  and  from  over  in 
'Scott,  came  the  valley-farmers — horseback,  in 
buggies,  hacks,  two-horse  wagons,  with  wives, 
mothers,  sisters,  sweethearts,  in  white  dresses,  be- 
flowered  hats,  and  many  ribbons,  and  with  din 
ner-baskets  stuffed  with  good  things  to  eat — old 
220 


THE   GREAT   DAY 

ham,  young  chicken,  angel-cake  and  blackberry 
wine — to  be  spread  in  the  sunless  shade  of  great 
poplar  and  oak.  From  Bum  Hollow  and  Wild 
cat  Valley  and  from  up  the  slopes  that  lead  to 
Cracker's  Neck  came  smaller  tillers  of  the  soil — 
as  yet  but  faintly  marked  by  the  gewgaw  trap 
pings  of  the  outer  world;  while  from  beyond 
High  Knob,  whose  crown  is  in  cloud-land,  and 
through  the  Gap,  came  the  mountaineer  in  the 
primitive  simplicity  of  home-spun  and  cowhide, 
wide-brimmed  hat  and  poke-bonnet,  quaint 
speech,  and  slouching  gait.  Through  the  Gap 
he  came  in  two  streams — the  Virginians  from 
Crab  Orchard  and  Wise  and  Dickinson,  the  Ken- 
tuckians  from  Letcher  and  feudal  Harlan,  be 
yond  the  Big  Black — and  not  a  man  carried  a 
weapon  in  sight,  for  the  stern  spirit  of  that  Po 
lice  Guard  at  the  Gap  was  respected  wide  and 
far.  Into  the  town,  which  sits  on  a  plateau  some 
twenty  feet  above  the  level  of  the  two  rivers 
that  all  but  encircle  it,  they  poured,  hitching 
their  horses  in  the  strip  of  woods  that  runs 
through  the  heart  of  the  place,  and  broadens  into 
a  primeval  park  that,  fan-like,  opens  on  the  oval, 
level  field  where  all  things  happen  on  the  Fourth 
of  July.  About  the  street  they  loitered — lovers 
hand  in  hand — eating  fruit  and  candy  and  drink 
ing  soda-water,  or  sat  on  the  curb-stone,  mothers 
with  babies  at  their  breasts  and  toddling  chil- 
221 


A   KMGHT   OF   THE    CUMBEELAND 

dren  clinging  close — all  waiting  for  the  celebra 
tion  to  begin. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd. 
With  a  cheery  smile  and  beaming  goggles,  he 
moved  among  his  constituents,  joking  with  yok 
els,  saying  nice  things  to  mothers,  paying  gallan 
tries  to  girls,  and  chuckling  babies  under  the  chin. 
He  felt  popular  and  he  was — so  popular  that  he 
had  begun  to  see  himself  with  prophetic  eye  in  a 
congressional  seat  at  no  distant  day;  and  yet, 
withal,  he  was  not  wholly  happy. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  them  fellers  I 
made  bets  with  in  the  tournament  got  together 
this  morning  and  decided,  all  of  'em,  that  they 
wouldn't  let  me  off?  Jerusalem,  it's  most  five 
hundred  dollars !  "  And,  looking  the  picture 
of  dismay,  he  told  me  his  dilemma. 

It  seems  that  his  "  dark  horse  "  was  none 
other  than  the  Wild  Dog,  who  had  been  prac 
tising  at  home  for  this  tournament  for  nearly  a 
year;  and  now  that  the  Wild  Dog  was  an  out 
law,  he,  of  course,  wouldn't  and  couldn't  come 
to  the  Gap.  And  said  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd: 

"  Them  fellers  says  I  bet  I'd  bring  in  a  dark 
horse  who  would  win  this  tournament,  and  if  I 
don't  bring  him  in,  I  lose  just  the  same  as  though 
I  had  brought  him  in  and  he  hadn't  won.  An' 
I  reckon  they've  got  me." 

"  I  guess  they  have." 

222 


THE    GKEAT    DAY 

"  It  would  have  been  like  pickin'  money  off  a 
blackberry-bush,  for  I  was  goin'  to  let  the  Wild 
Dog  have  that  black  horse  o'  mine — the  stead 
iest  and  fastest  runner  in  this  country — and  my, 
how  that  fellow  can  pick  off  the  rings!  He's 
been  a-practising  for  a  year,  and  I  believe  he 
could  run  the  point  o'  that  spear  of  his  through 
a  lady's  finger-ring." 

"  You'd  better  get  somebody  else." 

"  Ah — that's  it.  The  Wild  Dog  sent  word 
he'd  send  over  another  feller,  named  Dave  Bran- 
ham,  who  has  been  practising  with  him,  who's 
just  as  good,  he  says,  as  he  is.  I'm  looking  for 
him  at  twelve  o'clock,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  take  him 
down  an'  see  what  he  can  do  on  that  black  horse 
o'  mine.  But  if  he's  no  good,  I  lose  five  hundred, 
all  right,"  and  he  sloped  away  to  his  duties.  For 
it  was  the  Hon.  Sam  who  was  master  of  cere 
monies  that  day.  He  was  due  now  to  read  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  in  a  poplar  grove 
to  all  who  would  listen;  he  was  to  act  as  umpire 
at  the  championship  baseball  game  in  the  after 
noon,  and  he  was  to  give  the  "  Charge  "  to  the 
assembled  knights  before  the  tournament. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  games  began — and  I  took 
the  Blight  and  the  little  sister  down  to  the 
"  grandstand  " — several  tiers  of  backless  benches 
with  leaves  for  a  canopy  and  the  river  singing 
through  rhododendrons  behind.  There  was 
223 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

jumping  broad  and  high,  and  a  loo-yard  dash 
and  hurdling  and  throwing  the  hammer,  which 
the  Blight  said  were  not  interesting — they  were 
too  much  like  college  sports — and  she  wanted  to 
see  the  baseball  game  and  the  tournament.  And 
yet  Marston  was  in  them  all — dogged  and  re 
sistless — his  teeth  set  and  his  eyes  anywhere  but 
lifted  toward  the  Blight,  who,  secretly  proud,  as 
I  believed,  but  openly  defiant,  mentioned  not  his 
name  even  when  he  lost,  which  was  twice  only. 

"  Pretty  good,  isn't  he?  "  I  said. 

"  Who?  "  she  said  indifferently. 

"  Oh,  nobody,"  I  said,  turning  to  smile,  but 
not  turning  quickly  enough. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  the 
Blight  sharply. 

"  Nothing,  nothing  at  all,"  I  said,  and 
straightway  the  Blight  thought  she  wanted  to  go 
home.  The  thunder  of  the  Declaration  was  still 
rumbling  in  the  poplar  grove. 

"  That's  the  Hon.  Sam  Budd,"  I  said. 
"  Don't  you  want  to  hear  him?  " 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  is — and  I  don't  want  to 
hear  him  and  I  think  you  are  hateful." 

Ah,  dear  me,  it  was  more  serious  than  I 
thought.  There  -were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  I 
led  the  Blight  and  the  little  sister  home — con 
science-stricken  and  humbled.  Still  I  would  find 
that  young  jackanapes  of  an  engineer  and  let 
224 


THE    GREAT    DAY 

him  know  that  anybody  who  made  the  Blight  un 
happy  must  deal  with  me.  I  would  take  him  by 
the  neck  and  pound  some  sense  into  him.  I  found 
him  lofty,  uncommunicative,  perfectly  alien  to 
any  consciousness  that  I  could  have  any  knowl 
edge  of  what  was  going  or  any  right  to  poke 
my  nose  into  anybody's  business — and  I  did 
nothing  except  go  back  to  lunch — to  find  the 
Blight  upstairs  and  the  little  sister  indignant 
with  me. 

"  You  just  let  them  alone,"  she  said  severely. 

"Let  who  alone?"  I  said,  lapsing  into  the 
speech  of  childhood. 

"  You — just — let — them — alone,"  she  re 
peated. 

"  I've  already  made  up  my  mind  to  that." 

"  Well,  then!  "  she  said,  with  an  air  of  satis 
faction,  but  why  I  don't  know. 

I  went  back  to  the  poplar  grove.  The  Dec 
laration  was  over  and  the  crowd  was  gone,  but 
there  was  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd,  mopping  his 
brow  with  one  hand,  slapping  his  thigh  with  the 
other,  and  all  but  executing  a  pigeon-wing  on 
the  turf.  He  turned  goggles  on  me  that  literally 
shone  triumph. 

"  He's  come — Dave  Branham's  come!"  he 

said.     "  He's  better  than  the  Wild  Dog.     I've 

been  trying  him  on  the  black  horse  and,  Lord, 

how  he  can  take  them  rings  off!     Ha,  won't  I 

225 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

get  into  them  fellows  who  wouldn't  let  me  off 
this  morning!  Oh,  yes,  I  agreed  to  bring  in  a 
dark  horse,  and  I'll  bring  him  in  all  right.  That 
five  hundred  is  in  my  clothes  now.  You  see  that 
point  yonder?  Well,  there's  a  hollow  there  and 
bushes  all  around.  That's  where  I'm  going  to 
dress  him.  I've  got  his  clothes  all  right  and  a 
name  for  him.  This  thing  is  a-goin'  to  come  off 
accordin'  to  Hoyle,  Ivanhoe,  Four-Quarters-of- 
Beef,  and  all  them  mediaeval  fellows.  Just  watch 
me!" 

I  began  to  get  newly  interested,  for  that 
knight's  name  I  suddenly  recalled.  Little  Buck, 
the  Wild  Dog's  brother,  had  mentioned  him, 
when  we  were  over  in  the  Kentucky  hills,  as 
pracising  with  the  Wjld  Dog  —  as  being 
44  mighty  good,  but  nowhar  'longside  o'  Mart." 
So  the  Hon.  Sam  might  have  a  good  substitute, 
after  all,  and  being  a  devoted  disciple  of  Sir 
Walter,  I  knew  his  knight  would  rival,  in  splen 
dor  at  least,  any  that  rode  with  King  Arthur 
in  days  of  old. 

The  Blight  was  very  quiet  at  lunch,  as  was  the 
little  sister,  and  my  effort  to  be  jocose  was  a 
lamentable  failure.  So  I  gave  news. 

"  The  Hon.  Sam  has  a  substitute."  No  curi 
osity  and  no  question. 

14  Who — did  you  say?  Why,  Dave  Branham, 
a  friend  of  the  Wild  Dog.  Don't  you  remember 
226 


THE    GHEAT    DAY 

Buck  telling  us  about  him?"  No  answer. 
"  Well,  I  do — and,  by  the  way,  I  saw  Buck  and 
one  of  the  big  sisters  just  a  while  ago.  Her  name 
is  Mollie.  Dave  Branham,  you  will  recall,  is 
her  sweetheart.  The  other  big  sister  had  to  stay 
at  home  with  her  mother  and  little  Cindy,  who's 
sick.  Of  course,  I  didn't  ask  them  about  Mart 
— the  Wild  Dog.  They  knew  I  knew  and  they 
wouldn't  have  liked  it.  The  Wild  Dog's  around, 
I  understand,  but  he  won't  dare  show  his  face. 
Every  policeman  in  town  is  on  the  lookout  for 
him."  I  thought  the  Blight's  face  showed  a 
signal  of  relief. 

"  I'm  going  to  play  short-stop,"  I  added. 

"  Oh!  "  said  the  Blight,  with  a  smile,  but  the 
little  sister  said  with  some  scorn : 

"You!" 

"  I'll  show  you,"  I  said,  and  I  told  the  Blight 
about  baseball  at  the  Gap.  We  had  introduced 
baseball  into  the  region  and  the  valley  boys  and 
mountain  boys,  being  swift  runners,  throwing 
like  a  rifle-shot  from  constant  practice  with 
stones,  and  being  hard  as  nails,  caught  the  game 
quickly  and  with  great  ease.  We  beat  them  all 
the  time  at  first,  but  now  they  were  beginning 
to  beat  us.  We  had  a  league  now,  and  this  was 
the  championship  game  for  the  pennant. 

"  It  was  right  funny  the  first  time  we  beat  a 
native  team.  Of  course,  we  got  together  and 
227 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

cheered  'em.  They  thought  we  were  cheering 
ourselves,  so  they  got  red  in  the  face,  rushed  to 
gether  and  whooped  it  up  for  themselves  for 
about  half  an  hour." 

The  Blight  almost  laughed. 

"  We  used  to  have  to  carry  our  guns  around 
with  us  at  first  when  we  went  to  other  places, 
and  we  came  near  having  several  fights." 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  Blight  excitedly.  "  Do  you 
think  there  might  be  a  fight  this  afternoon?  " 

"  Don't  know,"  I  said,  shaking  my  head. 
"  It's  pretty  hard  for  eighteen  people  to  fight 
when  nine  of  them  are  policemen  and  there  are 
forty  more  around.  Still  the  crowd  might  take 
a  hand." 

This,  I  saw,  quite  thrilled  the  Blight  and  she 
was  in  good  spirits  when  we  started  out. 

"  Marston  doesn't  pitch  this  afternoon,"  I 
said  to  the  little  sister.  "  He  plays  first  base. 
He's  saving  himself  for  the  tournament.  He's 
done  too  much  already."  The  Blight  merely 
turned  her  head  while  I  was  speaking.  "  And 
the  Hon.  Sam  will  not  act  as  umpire.  He  wants 
to  save  his  voice — and  his  head." 

The  seats  in  the  "  grandstand  "  were  in  the 
sun  now,  so  I  left  the  girls  in  a  deserted  band 
stand  that  stood  on  stilts  under  trees  on  the  south 
ern  side  of  the  field,  and  on  a  line  midway  be 
tween  third  base  and  the  position  of  short-stop. 
228 


THE    GREAT   DAY 

Now  there  is  no  enthusiasm  in  any  sport  that 
equals  the  excitement  aroused  by  a  rural  base 
ball  game  and  I  never  saw  the  enthusiasm  of  that 
game  outdone  except  by  the  excitement  of  the 
tournament  that  followed  that  afternoon.  The 
game  was  close  and  Marston  and  I  assuredly 
were  stars — Marston  one  of  the  first  magnitude. 
"  Goose-egg  "  on  one  side  matched  "  goose-egg  " 
on  the  other  until  the  end  of  the  fifth  inning, 
when  the  engineer  knocked  a  home-run.  Spec 
tators  threw  their  hats  into  the  trees,  yelled  them 
selves  hoarse,  and  I  saw  several  old  mountain 
eers  who  understood  no  more  of  baseball  than 
of  the  lost  digamma  in  Greek  going  wild  with 
the  general  contagion.  During  these  innings  I 
had  "  assisted  "  in  two  doubles  and  had  fired 
in  three  "  daisy-cutters  "  to  first  myself  in  spite 
of  the  guying  I  got  from  the  opposing  rooters. 
"  Four-eyes  "  they  called  me  on  account  of  my 
spectacles  until  a  new  nickname  came  at  the  last 
half  of  the  ninth  inning,  when  we  were  in  the 
field  with  the  score  four  to  three  in  our  favor. 
It  was  then  that  a  small,  fat  boy  with  a  paper 
megaphone  longer  than  he  was  waddled  out  al 
most  to  first  base  and  levelling  his  trumpet  at 
me,  thundered  out  in  a  sudden  silence : 

"  Hello,   Foxy  Grandpa !  "     That  was   too 
much.     I  got  rattled,  and  when  there  were  three 
men  on  bases  and  two  out,  a  swift  grounder  came 
229 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBEKLAND 

to  me,  I  fell — catching  it — and  threw  wildly  to 
first  from  my  knees.  I  heard  shouts  of  horror, 
anger,  and  distress  from  everywhere  and  my 
own  heart  stopped  beating — I  had  lost  the  game 
— and  then  Marston  leaped  in  the  air — surely  it 
must  have  been  four  feet — caught  the  ball  with 
his  left  hand  and  dropped  back  on  the  bag. 
The  sound  of  his  foot  on  it  and  the  runner's  was 
almost  simultaneous,  but  the  umpire  said  Mar- 
ston's  was  there  first.  Then  bedlam!  One  of 
my  brothers  was  umpire  and  the  captain  of  the 
other  team  walked  threateningly  out  toward  him, 
followed  by  two  of  his  men  with  baseball  bats. 
As  I  started  off  myself  toward  them  I  saw,  with 
the  corner  of  my  eye,  another  brother  of  mine 
start  in  a  run  from  the  left  field,  and  I  wondered 
why  a  third,  who  was  scoring,  sat  perfectly  still 
in  his  chair,  particularly  as  a  well-known,  red 
headed  tough  from  one  of  the  mines  who  had 
been  officiously  antagonistic  ran  toward  the 
pitcher's  box  directly  in  front  of  him.  Instantly 
a  dozen  of  the  Guard  sprang  toward  it,  some  man 
pulled  his  pistol,  a  billy  cracked  straightway  on 
his  head,  and  in  a  few  minutes  order  was  re 
stored.  And  still  the  brother  scoring  hadn't 
moved  from  his  chair,  and  I  spoke  to  him  hotly. 
"  Keep  your  shirt  on,"  he  said  easily,  lifting 
his  score-card  with  his  left  hand  and  showing  his 
right  clinched  about  his  pistol  under  it. 
230 


THE   GREAT   DAY 

"  I  was  just  waiting  for  that  red-head  to  make 
a  move.  I  guess  I'd  have  got  him  first." 

I  walked  back  to  the  Blight  and  the  little  sis 
ter  and  both  of  them  looked  very  serious  and 
frightened. 

"  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  a  real  fight,  after 
all,"  said  the  Blight.  "  Not  this  afternoon." 

It  was  a  little  singular  and  prophetic,  but  just 
as  the  words  left  her  lips  one  of  the  Police  Guard 
handed  me  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Somebody  in  the  crowd  must  have  dropped 
it  in  my  pocket,"  he  said.  On  the  paper  were 
scrawled  these  words: 

"  Look  out  for  the  Wild  Dog!" 

I  sent  the  paper  to  Marston. 


231 


VII 

AT  LAST THE  TOURNAMENT 

A"~^  last — the  tournament ! 
Ever  afterward  the  Hon.  Samuel  Budd 
called  it  "  The  Gentle  and  Joyous  Passage  of 
Arms — not  of  Ashby — but  of  the  Gap,  by-suh  I  " 
The  Hon.  Samuel  had  arranged  it  as  nearly 
after  Sir  Walter  as  possible.  And  a  sudden  leap 
it  was  from  the  most  modern  of  games  to  a  game 
most  ancient. 

No  knights  of  old  ever  jousted  on  a  lovelier 
field  than  the  green  little  valley  toward  which 
the  Hon.  Sam  waved  one  big  hand.  It  was  level, 
shorn  of  weeds,  elliptical  in  shape,  and  bound  in 
by  trees  that  ran  in  a  semicircle  around  the  bank 
of  the  river,  shut  in  the  southern  border,  and  ran 
back  to  the  northern  extremity  in  a  primeval 
little  forest  that  wood-thrushes,  even  then,  were 
making  musical — all  of  it  shut  in  by  a  wall  of 
living  green,  save  for  one  narrow  space  through 
which  the  knights  were  to  enter.  In  front  waved 
Wallens'  leafy  ridge  and  behind  rose  the  Cum 
berland  Range  shouldering  itself  spur  by  spur, 
232 


AT   LAST— THE   TOUBNAMENT 

into  the  coming  sunset  and  crashing  eastward 
into  the  mighty  bulk  of  Powell's  Mountain, 
which  loomed  southward  from  the  head  of  the 
valley — all  nodding  sunny  plumes  of  chestnut. 

The  Hon.  Sam  had  seen  us  coming  from  afar 
apparently,  had  come  forward  to  meet  us,  and 
he  was  in  high  spirits. 

"  I  am  Prince  John  and  Waldemar  and  all  the 
rest  of  'em  this  day,"  he  said,  "  and  '  it  is  thus/  ' 
quoting  Sir  Walter,  "  that  we  set  the  dutiful  ex 
ample  of  loyalty  to  the  Queen  of  Love  and 
Beauty,  and  are  ourselves  her  guide  to  the  throne 
which  she  must  this  day  occupy."  And  so  say 
ing,  the  Hon.  Sam  marshalled  the  Blight  to  a 
seat  of  honor  next  his  own. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  she  is  going  to  be  the 
Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty?  "  asked  the  little 
sister.  The  Hon.  Sam  winked  at  me. 

"  Well,  this  tournament  lies  between  two  gal 
lant  knights.  One  will  make  her  the  Queen  of 
his  own  accord,  if  he  wins,  and  if  the  other 
wins,  he's  got  to,  or  I'll  break  his  head.  I've 
given  orders."  And  the  Hon.  Sam  looked 
about  right  and  left  on  the  people  who  were  his 
that  day. 

"  Observe  the  nobles  and  ladies,"  he  said,  still 
following  Sir  Walter,  and  waving  at  the  towns 
people  and  visitors  in  the  rude  grandstand. 
"  Observe  the  yeomanry  and  spectators  of  a  bet- 

233 


A    KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

ter  degree  than  the  mere  vulgar  " — waving  at 
the  crowd  on  either  side  of  the  stand — "  and 
the  promiscuous  multitude  down  the  river  banks 
and  over  the  woods  and  clinging  to  the  tree-tops 
and  to  yon  telegraph-pole.  And  there  is  my  her 
ald  " — pointing  to  the  cornetist  of  the  local  band 
— "  and  wait — by  my  halidom — please  just  wait 
until  you  see  my  knight  on  that  black  charger  o' 


mine." 


The  Blight  and  the  little  sister  were  convulsed 
and  the  Hon.  Sam  went  on : 

"  Look  at  my  men-at-arms  " — the  volunteer 
policemen  with  bulging  hip-pockets,  dangling 
billies  and  gleaming  shields  of  office — "  and  at 
my  refreshment  tents  behind  " — where  peanuts 
and  pink  lemonade  were  keeping  the  multitude 
busy — u  and  my  attendants  " — colored  gentle 
men  with  sponges  and  water-buckets — u  the  ar 
morers  and  farriers  haven't  come  yet.  But  my 
knight — I  got  his  clothes  in  New  York — just 
wait — Love  of  Ladies  and  Glory  to  the  Brave !  n 
Just  then  there  was  a  commotion  on  the  free  seats 
on  one  side  of  the  grandstand.  A  darky  starting, 
in  all  ignorance,  to  mount  them  was  stopped  and 
jostled  none  too  good-naturedly  back  to  the 
ground. 

"  And  see,"  mused  the  Hon.  Sam,  "  in  lieu 
of  the  dog  of  an  unbeliever  we  have  a  dark  an 
alogy  in  that  son  of  Ham." 
234 


AT   LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

The  little  sister  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve  and 
pointed  toward  the  entrance.  Outside  and  lean 
ing  on  the  fence  were  Mollie,  the  big  sister,  and 
little  Buck.  Straightway  I  got  up  and  started 
for  them.  They  hung  back,  but  I  persuaded 
them  to  come,  and  I  led  them  to  seats  two  tiers 
below  the  Blight — who,  with  my  little  sister, 
rose  smiling  to  greet  them  and  shake  hands — 
much  to  the  wonder  of  the  nobles  and  ladies  close 
about,  for  Mollie  was  in  brave  and  dazzling  ar 
ray,  blushing  fiercely,  and  little  Buck  looked  as 
though  he  would  die  of  such  conspicuousness. 
No  embarrassing  questions  were  asked  about 
Mart  or  Dave  Branham,  but  I  noticed  that  Mol 
lie  had  purple  and  crimson  ribbons  clinched  in 
one  brown  hand.  The  purpose  of  them  was 
plain,  and  I  whispered  to  the  Blight : 

"  She's  going  to  pin  them  on  Dave's  lance." 
The  Hon.  Sam  heard  me. 

"  Not  on  your  life,"  he  said  emphatically.  "  I 
ain't  takin'  chances,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the 
Blight.  "  She's  got  to  win,  no  matter  who  loses." 
He  rose  to  his  feet  suddenly. 

"  Glory  to  the  Brave — they're  comin' !  Toot 
that  horn,  son,"  he  said;  "  they're  comin',"  and 
the  band  burst  into  discordant  sounds  that  would 
have  made  the  "  wild,  barbaric  music  "  on  the 
field  of  Ashby  sound  like  a  lullaby.  The  Blight 
stifled  her  laughter  over  that  amazing  music 

235 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

with  her  handkerchief,  and  even  the  Hon.  Sam 
scowled. 

"  Gee!  "  he  said;  "  it  is  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Here  they  come!" 

The  nobles  and  ladies  on  the  grandstand,  the 
yeomanry  and  spectators  of  better  degree,  and 
the  promiscuous  multitude  began  to  sway  expect 
antly  and  over  the  hill  came  the  knights,  single 
file,  gorgeous  in  velvets  and  in  caps,  with  wav 
ing  plumes  and  with  polished  spears,  vertical, 
resting  on  the  right  stirrup  foot  and  gleaming 
in  the  sun. 

"A  goodly  array!"  murmured  the  Hon. 
Sam. 

A  crowd  of  small  boys  gathered  at  the  fence 
below,  and  I  observed  the  Hon.  Sam's  pockets 
bulging  with  peanuts. 

"  Largesse !  "  I  suggested. 

"  Good!  "  he  said,  and  rising  he  shouted: 

"  Largessy!  largessy!  "  scattering  peanuts  by 
the  handful  among  the  scrambling  urchins. 

Down  wound  the  knights  behind  the  back 
stand  of  the  baseball  field,  and  then,  single  file, 
in  front  of  the  nobles  and  ladies,  before  whom 
they  drew  up  and  faced,  saluting  with  inverted 
spears. 

The  Hon.  Sam  arose — his  truncheon  a  hick 
ory  stick — and  in  a  stentorian  voice  asked  the 
names  of  the  doughty  knights  who  were  there  to 
236 


AT   LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

win  glory  for  themselves  and  the  favor  of  fair 
women. 

Not  all  will  be  mentioned,  but  among  them 
was  the  Knight  of  the  Holston — Athelstanic  in 
build — in  black  stockings,  white  negligee  shirt, 
with  Byronic  collar,  and  a  broad  crimson  sash 
tied  with  a  bow  at  his  right  side.  There  was  the 
Knight  of  the  Green  Valley,  in  green  and  gold, 
a  green  hat  with  a  long  white  plume,  lace  ruffles 
at  his  sleeves,  and  buckles  on  dancing-pumps ;  a 
bonny  fat  knight  of  Maxwelton  Braes,  in  High 
land  kilts  and  a  plaid;  and  the  Knight  at  Large. 

"  He  ought  to  be  caged,"  murmured  the  Hon. 
Sam ;  for  the  Knight  at  Large  wore  plum-colored 
velvet,  red  baseball  stockings,  held  in  place  with 
safety-pins,  white  tennis  shoes,  and  a  very  small 
hat  with  a  very  long  plume,  and  the  dye  was  al 
ready  streaking  his  face.  Marston  was  the  last 
— sitting  easily  on  his  iron  gray. 

"  And  your  name,  Sir  Knight?  " 

"  The  Discarded/'  said  Marston,  with  steady 
eyes.  I  felt  the  Blight  start  at  my  side  and  side- 
wise  I  saw  that  her  face  was  crimson. 

The  Hon.  Sam  sat  down,  muttering,  for  he 
did  not  like  Marston : 

"  Wenchless  springal!  " 

Just  then  my  attention  was  riveted  on  Mollie 
and  little  Buck.  Both  had  been  staring  silently 
at  the  knights  as  though  they  were  apparitions, 
237 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

but  when  Marston  faced  them  I  saw  Buck  clutch 
his  sister's  arm  suddenly  and  say  something  ex 
citedly  in  her  ear.  Then  the  mouths  of  both 
tightened  fiercely  and  their  eyes  seemed  to  be 
darting  lightning  at  the  unconscious  knight, 
who  suddenly  saw  them,  recognized  them,  and 
smiled  past  them  at  me.  Again  Buck  whis 
pered,  and  from  his  lips  I  could  make  out  what 
he  said: 

"I  wonder  whar's  Dave?"  but  Mollie  did 
not  answer. 

"Which  is  yours,  Mr.  Budd?  "  asked  the 
little  sister.  The  Hon.  Sam  had  leaned  back 
with  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  white 
waistcoat. 

"  He  ain't  come  yet.  I  told  him  to  come 
last." 

The  crowd  waited  and  the  knights  waited — 
so  long  that  the  Mayor  rose  in  his  seat  some 
twenty  feet  away  and  called  out  : 

"  Go  ahead,  Budd." 

"  You  jus'  wait  a  minute — my  man  ain't  come 
yet,"  he  said  easily,  but  from  various  places  in 
the  crowd  came  jeering  shouts  from  the  men  with 
whom  he  had  wagered  and  the  Hon.  Sam  began 
to  look  anxious. 

"  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter?  "  he  added  in 
a  lower  tone.  "  I  dressed  him  myself  more  than 
an  hour  ago  and  I  told  him  to  come  last,  but  I 

238 


AT    LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

didn't  mean  for  him  to  wait  till  Christmas — 
ah!" 

The  Hon.  Sam  sat  back  in  his  seat  again. 
From  somewhere  had  come  suddenly  the  blare 
of  a  solitary  trumpet  that  rang  in  echoes  around 
the  amphitheatre  of  the  hills  and,  a  moment 
later,  a  dazzling  something  shot  into  sight  above 
the  mound  that  looked  like  a  ball  of  fire,  coming 
in  mid-air.  The  new  knight  wore  a  shining  hel 
met  and  the  Hon.  Sam  chuckled  at  the  murmur 
that  rose  and  then  he  sat  up  suddenly.  There 
was  no  face  under  that  helmet — the  Hon.  Sam's 
knight  was  masked  and  the  Hon.  Sam  slapped  his 
thigh  with  delight. 

"Bully — bully!  I  never  thought  of  it — I 
never  thought  of  it — bully !  " 

This  was  thrilling,  indeed — but  there  was 
more ;  the  strange  knight's  body  was  cased  in  a 
flexible  suit  of  glistening  mail,  his  spear  point, 
when  he  raised  it  on  high,  shone  like  silver,  and 
he  came  on  like  a  radiant  star — on  the  Hon. 
Sam's  charger,  white-bridled,  with  long  mane  and 
tail  and  black  from  tip  of  nose  to  tip  of  that 
tail  as  midnight.  The  Hon.  Sam  was  certainly 
doing  well.  At  a  slow  walk  the  stranger  drew 
alongside  of  Marston  and  turned  his  spear  point 
downward. 

"  Gawd !  "  said  an  old  darky.  "  Kuklux  done 
come  again."  And,  indeed,  it  looked  like  a  Ku- 
239 


A    KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBEKLAND 

klux  mask,  white,  dropping  below  the  chin,  and 
with  eye-holes  through  which  gleamed  two  bright 
fires. 

The  eyes  of  Buck  and  Mollie  were  turned 
from  Marston  at  last,  and  open-mouthed  they 
stared. 

"Hit's  the  same  hoss — hit's  Dave!"  said 
Buck  aloud. 

"  Well,  my  Lord!  "  said  Mollie  simply. 

The  Hon.  Sam  rose  again. 

"  And  who  is  Sir  Tardy  Knight  that  hither 
comes  with  masked  face?  "  he  asked  courteously. 
He  got  no  answer. 

"  What's  your  name,  son?  " 

The  white  mask  puffed  at  the  wearer's  lips. 

"  The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland,"  was  the 
low,  muffled  reply. 

"  Make  him  take  that  thing  off !  "  shouted 
some  one. 

"  What's  he  got  it  on  fer?  "  shouted  another. 

"  I  don't  know,  friend,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam; 
"  but  it  is  not  my  business  nor  prithee  thine ;  since 
by  the  laws  of  the  tournament  a  knight  may  ride 
masked  for  a  specified  time  or  until  a  particular 
purpose  is  achieved,  that  purpose  being,  I  wot, 
victory  for  himself  and  for  me  a  handful  of  by- 
zants  from  thee." 

"  Now,  go  ahead,  Budd,"  called  the  Mayor, 
again.     "  Are  you  going  crazy?  " 
240 


AT    LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

The  Hon.  Sam  stretched  out  his  arms  once  to 
loosen  them  for  gesture,  thrust  his  chest  out,  and 
uplifted  his  chin :  "  Fair  ladies,  nobles  of  the 
realm,  and  good  knights,"  he  said  sonorously, 
and  he  raised  one  hand  to  his  mouth  and  behind 
it  spoke  aside  to  me : 

u  How's  my  voice — how's  my  voice?  " 

"Great!" 

His  question  was  genuine,  for  the  mask  of  hu 
mor  had  dropped  and  the  man  was  transformed. 
I  knew  his  inner  seriousness,  his  oratorical  com 
mand  of  good  English,  and  I  knew  the  habit,  not 
uncommon  among  stump-speakers  in  the  South, 
of  falling,  through  humor,  carelessness,  or  for 
the  effect  of  flattering  comradeship,  into  all  the 
lingual  sins  of  rural  speech;  but  I  was  hardly 
prepared  for  the  soaring  flight  the  Hon.  Sam 
took  now.  He  started  with  one  finger  pointed 
heavenward : 

"  The  knights  are  dust 

And  their  good  swords  are  rust  ; 

Their  souls  are  with  the  saints,  we  trust." 

"  Scepticism  is  but  a  harmless  phantom  in 
these  mighty  hills.  We  believe  that  with  the 
saints  is  the  good  knight's  soul,  and  if,  in  the 
radiant  unknown,  the  eyes  of  those  who  have 
gone  before  can  pierce  the  little  shadow  that  lies 
between,  we  know  that  the  good  knights  of  old 
241 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

look  gladly  down  on  these  good  knights  of  to 
day.  For  it  is  good  to  be  remembered.  The 
tireless  struggle  for  name  and  fame  since  the 
sunrise  of  history  attests  it;  and  the  ancestry 
worship  in  the  East  and  the  world-wide  hope  of 
immortality  show  the  fierce  hunger  in  the  human 
soul  that  the  memory  of  it  not  only  shall  not 
perish  from  this  earth,  but  that,  across  the  Great 
Divide,  it  shall  live  on — neither  forgetting  nor 
forgotten.  You  are  here  in  memory  of  those 
good  knights  to  prove  that  the  age  of  chivalry  is 
not  gone ;  that  though  their  good  swords  are  rust, 
the  stainless  soul  of  them  still  illumines  every 
harmless  spear  point  before  me  and  makes  it  a 
torch  that  shall  reveal,  in  your  own  hearts  still 
aflame,  their  courage,  their  chivalry,  their  sense 
of  protection  for  the  weak,  and  the  honor  in 
which  they  held  pure  women,  brave  men,  and 
almighty  God. 

'*  The  tournament,  some  say,  goes  back  to  the 
walls  of  Troy.  The  form  of  it  passed  with  the 
windmills  that  Don  Quixote  charged.  It  is  with 
you  to  keep  the  high  spirit  of  it  an  ever-burning 
vestal  fire.  It  was  a  deadly  play  of  old — it  is 
a  harmless  play  to  you  this  day.  But  the  prowess 
of  the  game  is  unchanged ;  for  the  skill  to  strike 
those  pendant  rings  is  no  less  than  was  the  skill 
to  strike  armor-joint,  visor,  or  plumed  crest.  It 
was  of  old  an  exercise  for  deadly  combat  on  the 
242 


AT    LAST— THE    TOUKNAMENT 

field  of  battle ;  it  is  no  less  an  exercise  now  to  you 
for  the  field  of  life — for  the  quick  eye,  the  steady 
nerve,  and  the  deft  hand  which  shall  help  you 
strike  the  mark  at  which,  outside  these  lists,  you 
aim.  And  the  crowning  triumph  is  still  just 
what  it  was  of  old — that  to  the  victor  the  Rose 
of  his  world — made  by  him  the  Queen  of  Love 
and  Beauty  for  us  all — shall  give  her  smile  and 
with  her  own  hands  place  on  his  brow  a  thorn- 
less  crown." 

Perfect  silence  honored  the  Hon.  Samuel 
Budd.  The  Mayor  was  nodding  vigorous  ap 
proval,  the  jeering  ones  kept  still,  and  when 
after  the  last  deep-toned  word  passed  like  music 
from  his  lips  the  silence  held  sway  for  a  little 
while  before  the  burst  of  applause  came.  Every 
knight  had  straightened  in  his  saddle  and  was 
looking  very  grave.  Marston's  eyes  never  left 
the  speaker's  face,  except  once,  when  they  turned 
with  an  unconscious  appeal,  I  thought,  to  the 
downcast  face  of  Blight — whereat  the  sympa 
thetic  little  sister  seemed  close  to  tears.  The 
Knight  of  the  Cumberland  shifted  in  his 
saddle  as  though  he  did  not  quite  understand 
what  was  going  on,  and  once  Mollie,  seeing 
the  eyes  through  the  mask-holes  fixed  on  her, 
blushed  furiously,  and  little  Buck,  grinned  back 
a  delighted  recognition.  The  Hon.  Sam  sat 
down,  visibly  affected  by  his  own  eloquence; 
243 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

slowly  he  wiped  his  face  and  then  he  rose 
again. 

"  Your  colors,  Sir  Knights,"  he  said,  with  a 
commanding  wave  of  his  truncheon,  and  one  by 
one  the  knights  spurred  forward  and  each  held 
his  lance  into  the  grandstand  that  some  fair  one 
might  tie  thereon  the  colors  he  was  to  wear. 
Marston,  without  looking  at  the  Blight,  held  his 
up  to  the  little  sister,  and  the  Blight  carelessly 
turned  her  face  while  the  demure  sister  was  busy 
with  her  ribbons,  but  I  noticed  that  the  little  ear 
next  to  me  was  tingling  red  for  all  her  brave 
look  of  unconcern.  Only  the  Knight  cxf  the  Cum 
berland  sat  still. 

"  What !  "  said  the  Hon.  Sam,  rising  to  his 
feet,  his  eyes  twinkling  and  his  mask  of  humor 
on  again;  "sees  this  masked  springal  " — the 
Hon.  Sam  seemed  much  enamored  of  that  ancient 
word — "  no  maid  so  fair  that  he  will  not  beg 
from  her  the  boon  of  colors  gay  that  he  may 
carry  them  to  victory  and  receive  from  her  hands 
a  wreath  therefor?  "  Again  the  Knight  of  the 
Cumberland  seemed  not  to  know  that  the  Hon. 
Sam's  winged  words  were  meant  for  him,  so  the 
statesman  translated  them  into  a  mutual  ver 
nacular. 

"  Remember  what  I  told  you,  son,"  he  said. 
"  Hold  up  yo'  spear  here  to  some  one  of  these 
gals  jes'  like  the  other  fellows  are  dom',"  and 
244 


AT    LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

as  he  sat  down  he  tried  surreptitiously  to  indicate 
the  Blight  with  his  index  finger,  but  the  knight 
failed  to  see  and  the  Blight's  face  was  so  indig 
nant  and  she  rebuked  him  with  such  a  knife-like 
whisper  that,  humbled,  the  Hon.  Sam  collapsed 
in  his  seat,  muttering : 

"  The  fool  don't  know  you — he  don't  know 
you." 

For  the  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  had  turned 
the  black  horse's  head  and  was  riding,  like  Ivan- 
hoe,  in  front  of  the  nobles  and  ladies,  his  eyes 
burning  up  at  them  through  the  holes  in  his  white 
mask.  Again  he  turned,  his  mask  still  uplifted, 
and  the  behavior  of  the  beauties  there,  as  on  the 
field  of  Ashby,  was  no  whit  changed :  "  Some 
blushed,  some  assumed  an  air  of  pride  and  dig 
nity,  some  looked  straight  forward  and  essayed 
to  seem  utterly  unconscious  of  what  was  going 
on,  some  drew  back  in  alarm  which  was  perhaps 
affected,  some  endeavored  to  forbear  smiling  and 
there  were  two  or  three  who  laughed  outright." 
Only  none  "  dropped  a  veil  over  her  charms  " 
and  thus  none  incurred  the  suspicion,  as  on  that 
field  of  Ashby,  that  she  was  "  a  beauty  of  ten 
years'  standing  "  whose  motive,  gallant  Sir  Wal 
ter  supposes  in  defence,  however,  was  doubtless 
"  a  surfeit  of  such  vanities  and  a  willingness  to 
give  a  fair  chance  to  the  rising  beauties  of  the 
age."  But  the  most  conscious  of  the  fair  was 

245 


A   KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

Mollie  below,  whose  face  was  flush'"'1  .id  whose 
brown  fingers  were  nervously  twisting  the  ribbons 
in  her  lap,  and  I  saw  Buck  nudge  her  and  heard 
him  whisper: 

"  Dave  ain't  going  to  pick  you  out,  I  tell  ye. 
I  heered  Mr.  Budd  thar  myself  tell  him  he  had 
to  pick  out  some  other  gal." 

"  You  hush!  "  said  Mollie  indignantly. 

It  looked  as  though  the  Knight  of  the  Cum 
berland  had  grown  rebellious  and  meant  to 
choose  whom  he  pleased,  but  on  his  way  back  the 
Hon.  Sam  must  have  given  more  surreptitious 
signs,  for  the  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  reined 
in  before  the  Blight  and  held  up  his  lance  to  her. 
Straightway  the  colors  that  were  meant  for  Mar- 
ston  fluttered  from  the  Knight  of  the  Cumber 
land's  spear.  I  saw  Marston  bite  his  lips  and 
I  saw  Mollie's  face  aflame  with  fury  and  her 
eyes  darting  lightning — no  longer  at  Marston 
now,  but  at  the  Blight.  The  mountain  girl  held 
nothing  against  the  city  girl  because  of  the  Wild 
Dog's  infatuation,  but  that  her  own  lover,  no 
matter  what  the  Hon.  Sam  said,  should  give  his 
homage  also  to  the  Blight,  in  her  own  presence, 
was  too  much.  Mollie  looked  around  no  more. 
Again  the  Hon.  Sam  rose. 

"  Love  of  ladies,"  he  shouted,  "  splintering  of 
lances !    Stand  forth,  gallant  knights.    Fair  eyes 
look  upon  your  deeds !    Toot  again,  son !  " 
246 


AT   LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

Now  just  opposite  the  grandstand  was  a  post 
some  ten  feet  high,  with  a  small  beam  projecting 
from  the  top  toward  the  spectators.  From  the 
end  of  this  hung  a  wire,  the  end  of  which  was 
slightly  upturned  in  line  with  the  course,  and  on 
the  tip  of  this  wire  a  steel  ring  about  an  inch  in 
diameter  hung  lightly.  Nearly  forty  yards  be 
low  this  was  a  similar  ring  similarly  arranged; 
and  at  a  similar  distance  below  that  was  still  an 
other,  and  at  the  blast  from  the  Hon.  Sam's 
herald,  the  gallant  knights  rode  slowly,  two  by 
two,  down  the  lists  to  the  western  extremity — 
the  Discarded  Knight  and  the  Knight  of  the 
Cumberland,  stirrup  to  stirrup,  riding  last — 
where  they  all  drew  up  in  line,  some  fifty  yards 
beyond  the  westernmost  post.  This  distance 
they  took  that  full  speed  might  be  attained  be 
fore  jousting  at  the  first  ring,  since  the  course — 
much  over  one  hundred  yards  long — must  be 
covered  in  seven  seconds  or  less,  which  was  no 
slow  rate  of  speed.  The  Hon.  Sam  arose  again : 

"  The  Knight  of  the  Holston !  5> 

Farther  down  the  lists  a  herald  took  up  the 
same  cry  and  the  good  knight  of  Athelstanic 
build  backed  his  steed  from  the  line  and  took  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  course. 

With  his  hickory  truncheon  the  Hon.  Sam 
signed  to  his  trumpeter  to  sound  the  onset. 

"  Now,  son!  "  he  said. 
247 


A    KNIGHT    OF    THE    CUMBERLAND 

With  the  blare  of  the  trumpet  Athelstane 
sprang  from  his  place  and  came  up  the  course, 
his  lance  at  rest;  a  tinkling  sound  and  the  first 
ring  slipped  down  the  knight's  spear  and  when 
he  swept  past  the  last  post  there  was  a  clapping 
of  hands,  for  he  held  three  rings  triumphantly 
aloft.  And  thus  they  came,  one  by  one,  until 
each  had  run  the  course  three  times,  the  Dis 
carded  jousting  next  to  the  last  and  the  Knight 
of  the  Cumberland,  riding  with  a  reckless  Cave, 
Adsum  air,  the  very  last.  At  the  second  joust 
it  was  quite  evident  that  the  victory  lay  between 
these  two,  as  they  only  had  not  lost  a  single 
ring,  and  when  the  black  horse  thundered  by,  the 
Hon.  Sam  shouted  "  Brave  lance!  "  and  jollied 
his  betting  enemies,  while  Buck  hugged  himself 
triumphantly  and  Mollie  seemed  temporarily  to 
lose  her  chagrin  and  anger  in  pride  of  her  lover, 
Dave.  On  the  third  running  the  Knight  of  the 
Cumberland  excited  a  sensation  by  sitting  up 
right,  waving  his  lance  up  and  down  between 
the  posts  and  lowering  it  only  when  the  ring  was 
within  a  few  feet  of  its  point.  His  recklessness 
cost  him  one  ring,  but  as  the  Discarded  had  lost 
one,  they  were  still  tied,  with  eight  rings  to  the 
credit  of  each,  for  the  first  prize.  Only  four 
others  were  left — the  Knight  of  the  H jlston  and 
the  Knight  of  the  Green  Valley  tying  with  seven 
rings  for  second  prize,  and  the  fat  Maxwelton 
248 


AT   LAST— THE    TOUKNAMENT 

Braes  and  the  Knight  at  Large  tying  with  six 
rings  for  the  third.  The  crowd  was  eager  now 
and  the  Hon.  Sam  confident.  On  came  the 
Knight  at  Large,  his  face  a  rainbow,  his  plume 
wilted  and  one  red  baseball  stocking  slipped 
from  its  moorings — two  rings!  On  followed 
the  fat  Maxwelton,  his  plaid  streaming  and  his 
kilts  flapping  about  his  fat  legs — also  two  rings ! 

"  Egad!  "  quoth  the  Hon.  Sam.  "  Did  yon 
lusty  trencherman  of  Annie  Laurie's  but  put  a 
few  more  layers  of  goodly  flesh  about  his  ribs, 
thereby  projecting  more  his  frontal  Falstaffian 
proportions,  by  my  halidom,  he  would  have  to 
joust  tandem !  " 

On  came  Athelstane  and  the  Knight  of  the 
Green  Valley,  both  with  but  two  rings  to  their 
credit,  and  on  followed  the  Discarded,  riding 
easily,  and  the  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  again 
waving  his  lance  between  the  posts,  each  with 
three  rings  on  his  spear.  At  the  end  the  Knight 
at  Large  stood  third,  Athelstane  second,  and  the 
Discarded  and  the  Knight  of  the  Cumberland 
stood  side  by  side  at  the  head  of  the  course,  still 
even,  and  now  ready  to  end  the  joust,  for  neither 
on  the  second  trial  had  missed  a  ring. 

The  excitement  was  intense  now.  Many  peo 
ple  seemed  to  know  who  the  Knight  of  the  Cum 
berland  was,  for  there  were  shouts  of  "  Go  it, 
Dave!  "  from  everywhere;  the  rivalry  of  class 
249 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

had  entered  the  contest  and  now  it  was  a  conflict 
between  native  and  "  furriner."  The  Hon.  Sam 
was  almost  beside  himself  with  excitement;  now 
and  then  some  man  with  whom  he  had  made  a 
bet  would  shout  jeeringly  at  him  and  the  Hon. 
Sam  would  shout  back  defiance.  But  when  the 
trumpet  sounded  he  sat  leaning  forward  with  his 
brow  wrinkled  and  his  big  hands  clinched  tight. 
Marston  sped  up  the  course  first — three  rings — 
and  there  was  a  chorus  of  applauding  yells. 

"  His  horse  is  gittin'  tired,"  said  the  Hon. 
Sam  jubilantly,  and  the  Blight's  face,  I  noticed, 
showed  for  the  first  time  faint  traces  of  indigna 
tion.  The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  was  tak 
ing  no  theatrical  chances  now  and  he  came 
through  the  course  with  level  spear  and,  with 
three  rings  on  it,  he  shot  by  like  a  thunderbolt. 

"  Hooray !  "  shouted  the  Hon.  Sam.  "  Lord, 
what  a  horse !  "  For  the  first  time  the  Blight, 
I  observed,  failed  to  applaud,  while  Mollie  was 
clapping  her  hands  and  Buck  was  giving  out 
shrill  yells  of  encouragement.  At  the  next  tilt 
the  Hon.  Sam  had  his  watch  in  his  hand  and 
when  he  saw  the  Discarded  digging  in  his  spurs 
he  began  to  smile  and  he  was  looking  at  his  watch 
when  the  little  tinkle  in  front  told  him  that  the 
course  was  run. 

"  Did  he  get  'em  all?" 

"  Yes,  he  got  'em  all,"  mimicked  the  Blight. 
250 


AT    LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

"  Yes,  an'  he  just  did  make  it,"  chuckled  the 
Hon.  Sam.  The  Discarded  had  wheeled  his 
horse  aside  from  the  course  to  watch  his  antag 
onist.  He  looked  pale  and  tired — almost  as  tired 
as  his  foam-covered  steed — but  his  teeth  were  set 
and  his  face  was  unmoved  as  the  Knight  of  the 
Cumberland  came  on  like  a  demon,  sweeping  off 
the  last  ring  with  a  low,  rasping  oath  of  satis 
faction. 

"  I  never  seed  Dave  ride  that-a-way  afore," 
said  Mollie. 

"  Me,  neither,"  chimed  in  Buck. 

The  nobles  and  ladies  were  waving  handker 
chiefs,  clapping  hands,  and  shouting.  The  spec 
tators  of  better  degree  were  throwing  up  their 
hats  and  from  every  part  of  the  multitude  the 
same  hoarse  shout  of  encouragement  rose : 

"  Go  it,  Dave !  Hooray  for  Dave !  "  while 
the  boy  on  the  telegraph-pole  was  seen  to  clutch 
wildly  at  the  crossbar  on  which  he  sat — he  had 
come  near  tumbling  from  his  perch. 

The  two  knights  rode  slowly  back  to  the  head 
of  the  lists,  where  the  Discarded  was  seen  to 
dismount  and  tighten  his  girth. 

"  He's  tryin'  to  git  time  to  rest,"  said  the 
Hon.  Sam.  "  Toot,  son !  " 

"  Shame !  "  said  the  little  sister  and  the  Blight 
both  at  once  so  severely  that  the  Hon.  Sam 
quickly  raised  his  hand. 

251 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

"  Hold  on,"  he  said,  and  with  hand  still  up 
lifted  he  waited  till  Marston  was  mounted  again. 
41  Now !  " 

The  Discarded  came  on,  using  his  spurs  with 
every  jump,  the  red  of  his  horse's  nostrils  show 
ing  that  far  away,  and  he  swept  on,  spearing  off 
the  rings  with  deadly  accuracy  and  holding  the 
three  aloft,  but  having  no  need  to  pull  in  his 
panting  steed,  who  stopped  of  his  own  accord. 
Up  went  a  roar,  but  the  Hon.  Sam,  covertly 
glancing  at  his  watch,  still  smiled.  That  watch 
he  pulled  out  when  the  Knight  of  the  Cumber 
land  started  and  he  smiled  still  when  he  heard 
the  black  horse's  swift,  rhythmic  beat  and  he 
looked  up  only  when  that  knight,  shouting  to 
his  horse,  moved  his  lance  up  and  down  before 
coming  to  the  last  ring  and,  with  a  dare-devil 
yell,  swept  it  from  the  wire. 

"  Tied — tied!  "  was  the  shout;  "  theyVe  got 
to  try  it  again !  they've  got  to  try  it  again !  " 

The  Hon.  Sam  rose,  with  his  watch  in  one 
hand  and  stilling  the  tumult  with  the  other. 
Dead  silence  came  at  once. 

u  I  fear  me,"  he  said,  "  that  the  good  knight, 
the  Discarded,  has  failed  to  make  the  course  in 
the  time  required  by  the  laws  of  the  tourna 
ment."  Bedlam  broke  loose  again  and  the  Hon. 
Sam  waited,  still  gesturing  for  silence. 

"  Summon  the  time-keeper!  "  he  said. 
252 


AT   LAST— THE    TOUKNAMEISTT 

The  time-keeper  appeared  from  the  middle  of 
the  field  and  nodded. 

"Eight  seconds!" 

"  The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  wins,"  said 
the  Hon  Sam. 

The  little  sister,  unconscious  of  her  own  sad 
face,  nudged  me  to  look  at  the  Blight — there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Before  the  grandstand  the  knights  slowly 
drew  up  again.  Marston's  horse  was  so  lame 
and  tired  that  he  dismounted  and  let  a  darky  boy 
lead  him  under  the  shade  of  the  trees.  But  he 
stood  on  foot  among  the  other  knights,  his  arms 
folded,  worn  out  and  vanquished,  but  taking  his 
bitter  medicine  like  a  man.  I  thought  the 
Blight's  eyes  looked  pityingly  upon  him. 

The  Hon.  Sam  arose  with  a  crown  of  laurel 
leaves  in  his  hand: 

"  You  have  fairly  and  gallantly  won,  Sir 
Knight  of  the  Cumberland,  and  it  is  now  your 
right  to  claim  and  receive  from  the  hands  of  the 
Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  the  chaplet  of  honor 
which  your  skill  has  justly  deserved.  Advance, 
Sir  Knight  of  the  Cumberland,  and  dismount!  " 

The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  made  no  move 
nor  sound. 

"  Get  off  yo'  hoss,  son,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam 
kindly,  "  and  get  down  on  yo'  knees  at  the  feet 
253 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBERLAND 

of  them  steps.  This  fair  young  Queen  is  a-goin' 
to  put  this  chaplet  on  your  shinin'  brow.  That 
horse'll  stand." 

The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  threw  his  leg  over  the  saddle 
and  came  to  the  steps  with  a  slouching  gait  and 
looking  about  him  right  and  left.  The  Blight, 
blushing  prettily,  took  the  chaplet  and  went 
down  the  steps  to  meet  him. 

"Unmask!"  I  shouted. 

"  Yes,  son,"  said  the  Hon.  Sam,  "  take  that 
rag  off." 

Then  Mollie's  voice,  clear  and  loud,  startled 
the  crowd.  "  You  better  not,  Dave  Branham, 
fer  if  you  do  and  this  other  gal  puts  that  thing 

on  you,  you'll  never "  What  penalty  she 

was  going  to  inflict,  I  don't  know,  for  the  Knight 
of  the  Cumberland,  half  kneeling,  sprang  sud 
denly  to  his  feet  and  interrupted  her.  ;<  Wait  a 
minute,  will  ye?"  he  said  almost  fiercely,  and 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice  Mollie  rose  to  her  feet 
and  her  face  blanched. 

"  Lord  God !  "  she  said  almost  in  anguish, 
and  then  she  dropped  quickly  to  her  seat  again. 

The  Knight  of  the  Cumberland  had  gone  back 
to  his  horse  as  though  to  get  something  from 
his  saddle.  Like  lightning  he  vaulted  into  the 
saddle,  and  as  the  black  horse  sprang  toward 
the  opening  tore  his  mask  from  his  face,  turned 
254 


AT   LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

in  his  stirrups,  and  brandished  his  spear  with  a 
yell  of  defiance,  while  a  dozen  voices  shouted : 

14  The  Wild  Dog!  "  Then  was  there  an  up 
roar. 

"  Coddle  mighty!  "  shotted  the  Hon.  Sam. 
"  I  didn't  do  it,  I  swear  I  didn't  know  it.  He's 
tricked  me — he's  tricked  me!  Don't  shoot — 
you  might  hit  that  hoss !  " 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  Hon.  Sam's 
innocence.  Instead  of  turning  over  an  outlaw 
to  the  police,  he  had  brought  him  into  the  inner 
shrine  of  law  and  order  and  he  knew  what  a 
political  asset  for  his  enemies  that  insult  would 
be.  And  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  innocence 
of  Mollie  and  Buck  as  they  stood,  Mollie  wring 
ing  her  hands  and  Buck  with  open  mouth  and 
startled  face.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the  in 
nocence  of  anybody  other  than  Dave  Branham 
and  the  dare-devil  Knight  of  the  Cumberland. 

Marston  had  clutched  at  the  Wild  Dog's 
bridle  and  missed  and  the  outlaw  struck  savagely 
at  him  with  his  spear.  Nobody  dared  to  shoot 
because  of  the  scattering  crowd,  but  every  knight 
and  every  mounted  policeman  took  out  after  the 
outlaw  and  the  beating  of  hoofs  pounded  over 
the  little  mound  and  toward  Poplar  Hill.  Mar 
ston  ran  to  his  horse  at  the  upper  end,  threw  his 
saddle  on,  and  hesitated- — there  were  enough 
after  the  Wild  Dog  and  his  horse  was  blown. 

255 


A   KNIGHT    OF   THE    CUMBEKLAND 

He  listened  to  the  yells  and  sounds  of  the  chase 
encircling  Poplar  Hill.  The  outlaw  was  making 
for  Lee.  All  at  once  the  yells  and  hoof-beats 
seemed  to  sound  nearer  and  Marston  listened, 
astonished.  The  Wild  Dog  had  wheeled  and 
was  coming  back ;  he  was  going  to  make  for  the 
Gap,  where  sure  safety  lay.  Marston  buckled 
his  girth  and  as  he  sprang  on  his  horse,  uncon 
sciously  taking  his  spear  with  him,  the  Wild  Dog 
dashed  from  the  trees  at  the  far  end  of  the  field. 
As  Marston  started  the  Wild  Dog  saw  him, 
pulled  something  that  flashed  from  under  his 
coat  of  mail,  thrust  it  back  again,  and  brandish 
ing  his  spear,  he  came,  full  speed  and  yelling, 
up  the  middle  of  the  field.  It  was  a  strange  thing 
to  happen  in  these  modern  days,  but  Marston  was 
an  officer  of  the  law  and  was  between  the  Wild 
Dog  and  the  Ford  and  liberty  through  the  Gap, 
into  the  hills.  The  Wild  Dog  was  an  outlaw. 
It  was  Marston's  duty  to  take  him. 

The  law  does  not  prescribe  with  what  weapon 
the  lawless  shall  be  subdued,  and  Marston's  spear 
was  the  only  weapon  he  had.  Moreover,  the 
Wild  Dog's  yell  was  a  challenge  that  set  his 
blood  afire  and  the  girl  both  loved  was  looking 
on.  The  crowd  gathered  the  meaning  of  the 
joust — the  knights  were  crashing  toward  each 
other  with  spears  at  rest.  There  were  a  few 
surprised  oaths  from  men,  a  few  low  cries  from 
256 


But  every  knight  and  every  mounted  policeman  took  out  after  the  outlaw 


AT    LAST— THE    TOURNAMENT 

women,  and  then  dead  silence  in  which  the  sound 
of  hoofs  on  the  hard  turf  was  like  thunder.  The 
Blight's  face  was  white  and  the  little  sister  was 
gripping  my  arm  with  both  hands.  A  third 
horseman  shot  into  view  out  of  the  woods  at 
right  angles,  to  stop  them,  and  it  seemed  that 
the  three  horses  must  crash  together  in  a  heap. 
With  a  moan  the  Blight  buried  her  face  on  my 
shoulder.  She  shivered  when  the  muffled  thud 
of  body  against  body  and  the  splintering  of  wood 
rent  the  air;  a  chorus  of  shrieks  arose  about  her, 
and  when  she  lifted  her  frightened  face  Marston, 
the  Discarded,  was  limp  on  the  ground,  his  horse 
was  staggering  to  his  feet,  and  the  Wild  Dog 
was  galloping  past  her,  his  helmet  gleaming,  his 
eyes  ablaze,  his  teeth  set,  the  handle  of  his 
broken  spear  clinched  in  his  right  hand,  and 
blood  streaming  down  the  shoulder  of  the  black 
horse.  She  heard  the  shots  that  were  sent  after 
him,  she  heard  him  plunge  into  the  river,  and 
then  she  saw  and  heard  no  more. 


257 


VIII 

THE    KNIGHT    PASSES 

\  TELEGRAM  summoned  the  Blight  home 
jL\.  next  day.  Marston  was  in  bed  with  a 
ragged  wound  in  the  shoulder,  and  I  took  her 
to  tell  him  good-by.  I  left  the  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  when  I  came  back  their  hands  were 
unclasping,  and  for  a  Discarded  Knight  the  en 
gineer  surely  wore  a  happy  though  pallid  face. 

That  afternoon  the  train  on  which  we  left 
the  Gap  was  brought  to  a  sudden  halt  in  Wildcat 
Valley  by  a  piece  of  red  flannel  tied  to  the  end 
of  a  stick  that  was  planted  midway  the  track. 
Across  the  track,  farther  on,  lay  a  heavy  piece 
of  timber,  and  it  was  plain  that  somebody  meant 
that,  just  at  that  place,  the  train  must  stop. 
The  Blight  and  I  were  seated  on  the  rear  plat 
form  and  the  Blight  was  taking  a  last  look  at 
her  beloved  hills.  When  the  train  started  again, 
there  was  a  cracking  of  twigs  overhead  and  a 
shower  of  rhododendron  leaves  and  flowers 
dropped  from  the  air  at  the  feet  of  the  Blight. 
And  when  we  pulled  away  from  the  high-walled 

258 


THE   KNIGHT    PASSES 

cut  we  saw,  motionless  on  a  little  mound,  a  black 
horse,  and  on  him,  motionless,  the  Knight  of 
the  Cumberland,  the  helmet  on  his  head  (that 
the  Blight  might  know  who  he  was,  no  doubt), 
and  both  hands  clasping  the  broken  handle  of 
his  spear,  which  rested  across  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle.  Impulsively  the  Blight  waved  her  hand 
to  him  and  I  could  not  help  waving  my  hat ;  but 
he  sat  like  a  statue  and,  like  a  statue,  sat  on, 
simply  looking  after  us  as  we  were  hurried  along, 
until  horse,  broken  shaft,  and  shoulders  sank  out 
of  sight.  And  thus  passed  the  Knight  of  the 
Cumberland  with  the  last  gleam  that  struck  his 
helmet,  spear-like,  from  the  slanting  sun. 


THE  END 


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29 


DEC  17  1932 


MAY  14  1987 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

JBKt    ^a^^H  ' 


